


Boats Against the Current

by CoffeeQuill



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Board Games, Bonding, Childhood Trauma, Comfort, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Family Feels, First Crush, Friendship, Healing, Past Violence, Single Parents, Sparring, Survivor Guilt, Time Shenanigans, Time Travel, Timelines
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:55:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 38,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23994868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoffeeQuill/pseuds/CoffeeQuill
Summary: “Your name, kid,” he says, harsher than he intends.The kid blinks and his eyes don’t open again, just letting out a breath. At first, Din thinks he’s unconscious again, but then his eyes peel open, even hazier than before as he stares at the ceiling. “Din,” he whispers. “Din… Djarin.”The kid goes under and Din goes cold.----A child wearing red robes appears outside the ship, calling himself by Din's name. In the effort to care for him, Din's past won't be left alone.
Relationships: Baby Yoda & The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV), Cara Dune & The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV), Omera & Winta (Star Wars), The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Omera (Star Wars) (vague)
Comments: 111
Kudos: 230





	1. The Boy in the Red

**Author's Note:**

> Howdy!
> 
> This fic is a dive into Din's past and explores the themes of identity and how childhoods shape us. To clarify ahead of time, I'm not a therapist in any way. Certainly not an expert in trauma or psychology. Naturally, it's just fic. With that disclaimer, enjoy another discord-inspired fic.
> 
> The [discord](https://discord.gg/UwZuG6N)  
> Follow me on [tumblr](https://coffee-quill.tumblr.com/)

It’s a perfectly normal day when it happens, a bit boring if anything. They’re parked in a starport on Gelilean, ramps down and the ship missing panels to allow maintenance while tubes are plugged into the ship for fueling. Din walks up into the  _ Razor Crest  _ with a large container of supplies in his arms, setting it down just inside the ship.

_ “Ad’ika,”  _ he calls.

His child plays around the ship, avoiding the boxes and pipes as he tosses his ball and wanders after it. He stops and turns to look at Din, tilting his head with a soft coo.

“Come up,” he says, gesturing into the ship with a head tilt.

The kid trills and floats his ball into his hands before he walks towards the ship at a slow waddle. Din opens the box and begins to take out the freshly bought supplies—packed and frozen foods, easy meals that only require heating, and jugs of drinking water. He opens the storage drawers built into the wall, cold air wafting out as he shoves the purchases in.

_ “Ad’ika,”  _ he calls again. “Let’s go.”

He’s given a loud trill in response. Din adjusts the temperature for the drawer, then closes it, shoving it back into the wall. He stands and looks down the ramp. “Kid. Our rent time is almost up, we need to g—”

He stops, because there’s a  _ body  _ on the floor and his kid is standing beside its head, staring down at them. They’re small, possibly a child, dressed in all red with a hood up. He looks up at Din and lets out a louder trill, then pats his hand against their head looking nothing short of distressed. Din’s hand flies to his blaster, covering but not drawing, and he takes cautious steps down the ramp. “Kid,” he hisses, and the baby backs away, letting out a whimper.

Din stops just before the person, then slowly lowers to a knee beside them. He reaches down and touches a hand to the back of their shoulder. They’re warm, breathing in and out slowly, but unresponsive. Din glances towards his kid, who watches with worried eyes. He runs over and hides behind Din, grabbing onto his boot.

Din looks at him, then reaches out and takes the child by their shoulders, careful in turning them over onto their back. Then, his breath hitches, and a cold feeling starts in his veins.

He knows these robes.

The clothes are red all over, the material thick but not heavy, and the red mesh design that covers the chest. The memory is vague, but alarming, its presence pulling at him to demand his attention. He knows… these clothes. He’s  _ worn  _ these clothes.

A long time ago, on a little planet far away, in a town turned to dust.

His mother dressed him in these same red robes.

It takes him forever to actually look higher than the decorative mesh and at a face that sends further chills down his spine. It’s a kid. Absolutely a kid, with dark hair and tanned skin and a rounded face, dark lashes on eyes that are shut. They look as innocent as a young boy could possibly be, but something about him makes Din deeply uncomfortable.

He looks around. The starport shipyard is largely empty, only a few others milling around at their own crafts, most waiting on fuel or transporting loads. There’s no one dressed like the boy, nothing at all that suggests to Din that he might belong to any of them. And he hadn’t been here just minutes before when Din walked up the ramp.

The kid suddenly jerks, a muscle spasm that only lasts a second before he’s still again. At his leg, the baby lets out a squeal of distress.

“It’s okay,” Din mutters. He reaches out and starts to run his hands over the kid, feeling for any obvious wounds. He doesn’t see any darkened blood stains, but he won’t chance it. The kid doesn’t react, not until Din’s fingers run along his side and he sucks in a sudden breath.

Din looks at his face. He’s still not awake. He didn’t feel any obvious wounds, but expecting a cut, he pulls up the boy’s shirt from the side to examine the area. Only there’s no cut, just… a birthmark.

Din’s heart pounds a little harder in his chest, he feels breathless.  _ You’re seeing things.  _ It’s insane to say that he has the same exact birthmark in the same exact spot because… it’s insane. A coincidence. His own birthmark, on his left side above his hip, is lighter in tone than the rest of his skin and looks like splattered paint, as though someone had flicked a brush at him.

It’s irrational.

The baby lets out another soft cry, staring up at Din with teary eyes before he looks at the boy, his gaze switching back and forth between them. Something is distressing him and… it’s almost  _ suggestive. _

But it’s  _ irrational. _

The boy makes a soft noise in his throat, his hand twitching, before he shifts on the floor. His head turns to the other side and he goes still, then jerks again, eyes flying open. He rolls over onto his side in a burst of energy, bracing both forearms against the floor.

“Mama!” he cries, voice hoarse. But then he slumps down, barely held up by his arms, as though hit by a wave of exhaustion.

“Hey,” Din says. “Hey. You’re okay, kid. Look at me.”

The kid looks up, blinking heavy like he’s been pulled from the middle of his sleep cycle, eyes dazed without focus. He stares up at Din, then rolls over onto his back again, swallowing. “Who are you?” he whispers, his voice…  _ God, his voice. _

Din’s going mad.

“I’m a Mandalorian,” he says. “You’re at a starport on Gelilean. You’re safe. How do you feel?”

“I’m…” The kid takes shaky breath. “I-It’s… spinning. Everything is spinning.”

“You’re dizzy.” Din holds out his hand above the kid. “Grab my hand.”

The kid reaches up and takes it. The motion is uncoordinated, but not terribly so. His hand shakes. Din nods. “Good,” he says. “Squeeze as hard as you can.”

He squeezes. Decent strength. “Good. Okay. Follow my finger with your eyes.” Din holds up one finger and moves his hand back and forth above the boy. His eyes mostly follow, though he soon squeezes his eyes shut. “... Alright. You’re disoriented. Not hurt?”

The boy shakes his head.

“Good. Can you sit up?”

He holds out his hand and the boy takes it, slowly sitting up. Din feels his own heart pound when the hood falls back and the boy rubs at his eyes. His baby makes a whimper and holds his arms up until Din lifts him onto his upright knee. The kid turns to stare at the baby, looking vaguely confused, then stares up at Din.

Din takes a breath. He tries to calm the uncomfortable sensation in his stomach. “Kid—” he starts.

“I-I don’t feel good,” the kid bursts out, and he lets go of Din’s hand to lie back down again. “I’m… tired.”

“Okay. It’s okay.” Din adjusts the baby. “What’s your na--”

“It’s getting dark.” The kid takes a shaky breath. His hand shoots out to grab Din’s shin. “I-I can’t… I can’t see.”

On his leg, the baby makes a distressed sound, grabbing the arm that holds him.

“Everything is okay,” Din says. The kid breathes quickly, staring up at him, and Din can’t not stare into his eyes. Eyes that are just like his. Eyes that are like looking into a mirror, leaving everything else to change.

The kid’s hand loosens, slacks off Din’s shin. Din reaches down and grabs it, feeling for his pulse. “Kid?” he demands. “Kid.”

“‘M… tired.”

“That’s fine. I need you to tell me your name.”

“Mmph,” is all he gets.

“Your  _ name,  _ kid,” he says, harsher than he intends.

The kid blinks and his eyes don’t open again, just letting out a breath. At first, Din thinks he’s unconscious again, but then his eyes peel open, even hazier than before as he stares at the ceiling. “Din,” he whispers. “Din… Djarin.”

The kid goes under and Din goes cold.

The kid lies still for… Din loses track of the time. But they’re running out of paid time in the hangar and eventually, he scoops the boy into his arms and carries him up into the  _ Crest.  _ From there, Din lays him on the floor, grabbing a blanket to bundle and put beneath his head. The baby follows along, ears down and expression downtrodden. Even a Keldabe kiss won’t make him smile, but he plants himself down at the boy’s— _ Din’s _ —side, curling up between his ribs and arm.

His mind whirling, his entire  _ being  _ unsettled, Din goes outside to finish the repairs and disconnect the fuel.

_ It’s impossible,  _ he thinks when he grabs tools and shoves his hands into the underbelly of the ship. It’s absolutely physically impossible for a version of his child self to be here. It’s utter nonsense. It’s a ridiculous story a child that age could make up, so why would he entertain it as an adult?

He reattaches wires, tightens bolts, checks on the meters. He tries to focus on the state of his ship as he closes up that panel and moves to the next one. Someone is going to tell them to pay up or move along, so he tries to keep efficient, but the thoughts in his mind are… they’re too much. He’s getting a headache. He closes up one panel, then another, locks and detaches the fueling tube.

It’s not an illusion or hallucination. He touched the kid, the baby reacted to it all. The clothing, the voice, the face. He doesn’t remember what he looked like when he was a child. If there were any holograms of that time, they don’t exist anymore. The Mandalorians didn’t care for those sort of memories. And once the helmet went on… his face didn’t matter anymore.

Now, he’d kill for something to compare with.

When he’s closing up the last panel, using an air pressure tool to lock it in place, the uneasiness has grown into near a migraine. He walks up into the  _ Razor Crest  _ and begins to close the doors, the ramps retracting before the doors shut with a  _ hiss  _ of the airlock. 

The baby makes a whimper. He’s still curled up with the boy, looking so  _ stressed  _ that Din has to stop. He walks over and kneels down beside the boy on the other side. “What is it?” he murmurs. He holds his hands out. “Come here.”

The baby reaches up and Din takes hold of him, drawing him into his arms. But the little one immediately turns around, half cuddled into Din’s arm but still able to look down at the boy. He makes a sad coo, ears pressed down against his head. Din frowns, gently rubbing his arm. “He’s going to be alright,” he says. “He’s just asleep.”

Instead of being comforted, the baby’s face twists until a small wail begins. Din tightens his arms and starts to bounce him, but the baby just shoves his face into Din’s arm and  _ cries.  _ The child’s emotions seem to snap out at him, a sensation of  _ worry discomfort wrong wrong wrong worried this is wrong  _ flooding his senses. Din feels an ache in his chest and strokes the baby’s back, holding on tight.

The reaction is unsettling. The child always senses more than what’s on the surface—Din has learned to pay attention when he shows distress. But he doesn’t  _ understand  _ where this is coming from. The baby soon pulls his face from Din’s arm but then looks down at the boy and his sobs start again.

_ If this kid—if it’s true, then the baby knows— _

Din shakes the thought away. He won’t entertain the ridiculous notion, not until he has more information out of the kid. So he adjusts the baby and walks to the ladder, beginning to climb up to the cockpit.

Once he’s settled there, he places the kid in his lap and begins the startup sequence. The baby shoves his face into the gambeson beneath his beskar, continuing to cry into the padding as Din turns on the engines. His stomach is still in knots, and he’s careful as they lift off the parking platform, keeping it flat and steady to not risk disturbing the unexpected guest. With the sound of the engines, most of the crying is drowned out, and Din guides them forward and out.

The city around them is lit up in the night as they turn towards the stars. They’re fully fueled, their supplies completely restocked, their finances low though it’s an amenable situation. He should feel content. He should feel satisfied that they’re surviving. But the thoughts about the kid are creeping right at the edge and the miserable sobs of the baby are pulling them in. Once they’re in the cold black of space, he takes a long, deep breath.

A hand drifts down to the child and rubs his back. It takes time, but the sobs quiet down into soft cries, and then soften into sniffling coughs and whimpers. Din strokes the back of his head and shells of his ears, coaxing the boy into calming down, until there’s only the occasional sniff and sad coo.

“You’re okay,” Din murmurs. “You’re okay.”

He sets the ship to autopilot, keeping a straightforward course outwards. His hands leave the joysticks and he shifts forward in the seat, leaning back to be slumped in the chair. His hands come to cover the kid, who presses down against his front and stares up at him with red eyes and a tear-stained face.

He reaches up with one hand and lifts his helmet by the rim. He sets it on the dash, then runs a hand through his hair before returning it to the kid. The baby smiles. He sniffles and just watches him, eyes big.

Din looks at him, then lifts him higher onto his chest, letting him lie along his beskar. “Can you show me?” he murmurs. “What you’re feeling?”

The baby stares at him, then rests a hand against Din’s chest, his claws clicking lightly on the beskar before he closes his eyes.

Then, the flood of emotions hits Din in a wave.

_ Things feel wrong. _

_ Everything feels wrong. _

_ One person is two. _

_ You became two. _

The sensation of discord settles into his chest. He sucks in a breath and pushes the kid away, hold him out just away from Din, and the feeling vanishes.  _ Shit,  _ he thinks, his heart pounding. It was barely a fraction of what the kid was feeling, but already it was too much.

He can usually handle it when the kid reaches out to him and shares emotions. But now the baby just stares at him with sad eyes like he understands too well and the knot in Din’s stomach keeps tightening. He sets the baby down in his lap. “So… you think it’s—possible,” he says. The baby tilts his head. “That he’s…”

_ That he’s me. _

The child makes no indication of a yes or no answer, but his ears fold down and he cuddles up against Din again. Din flexes his hands before he reaches for the controls again, feeling breathless. “Okay,” he says. “... Okay. We’ll… go see Cara, and she can help us figure this out. Sound good?”

The baby doesn’t coo, just takes a big deep breath and then huffs out.

“Yeah,” Din says. “Sounds good.” He begins to input the coordinates for Nevarro.

They’re bound for Nevarro, following a calculated course, but Din doesn’t jump to hyperspace. Once the baby falls asleep in his arms, resting peacefully despite his earlier distress, Din doesn’t want to move. He doesn’t want to disturb him.

Most of all, he doesn’t want to get to Nevarro before he can get answers from the kid below.

There’s a part of him that considers maybe,  _ maybe,  _ this is a trick. There are a limited number of people in the galaxy who know his name. Karga and Cara know it. Moff Gideon was the one to tell them—and of course, the damn bastard wouldn’t die on Nevarro. The Armorer knows his name, any clan mates who may still be alive. It’s a limited number of people, but Gideon…

If it were an elaborate ruse, meant to track him?

He was registered on Mandalore after being found but that’s limited information. The registers only contained basic data, like his biometrics for health and where he’d been found, his family name and the culture he’d come from. It was impossible for Gideon to know exactly what he’d looked like as child, so to somehow find a double, and—

He lets out a sigh. Even for Gideon, it’s too… elaborate.

After a few hours of flight, he still cannot find another solution that makes logical sense, leaving him coming to the same conclusion again and again. He shakes his head and strokes the kid’s ears. It’s just… impossible.

“Aaaph.”

He looks down at the kid, who stares back up at him, blinking away the sleep from his eyes. He makes another tired trill before he crawls to Din’s hip and then begins to climb down.

“Where are you going?” Din says.

The kid makes a mumble, hitting the floor and then wandering towards the door. Din watches, then gets up to follow as the baby walks to the hole for the ladder. He crouches down and peers through, and Din kneels beside him to look down. In the cargo hold, the boy is awake. He’s looking around before pushing himself against the wall, bringing his knees to his chest.

The baby looks up at him. Din looks back. “I know,” he mutters, before he grabs the baby up and begins to climb down.

When his feet hit the floor and he turns around, the boy is staring up at him, his expressions conflicted between fear and curiosity. He’s pulled his hood back up and is curling in on himself as tight on he can, eyes big. He’s not hyperventilating, but on the verge of it. For a moment, they only look at each other.

“Tell me your name,” Din says.

The boy swallows. “Din Djarin,” he says, and it comes too fast and too confident to be faked. “Wh-Who are… you?”

“Where are your parents?”

He has a sharp intake of breath, and only a few seconds later are his eyes full of tears. He stares up at Din and swallows again, reaching up to wipe at the tears. “They’re… gone,” he says.

“What happened before you got here?”

The baby begins to squirm in his arms, letting out a squeal, and Din sets him down. He wanders over to the boy and puts his hands on his arm, making a small squeak that Din knows to be of comfort. The boy just stares at him.

“Th-there was… fighting,” the boy says, and his voice trembles and he hugs himself tighter. “Droids. There were droids and… and people were hurt.” The tears fall, slipping down his cheeks, and Din feels his own hands clench at his sides. “We ran. M-Mama and Papa, they…”

There’s a beat of silence.

“They’re go—,” he starts, but he’s cut off by a choked sob and he buries his face in his knees as he shakes, his chest heaving with the unsteady breaths, and his cries are muffled but still able to strike Din in his heart. He remembers crying. He remembers the days upon days where he’d done nothing but cry until he felt sick. When the thought of his parents was an instant trigger for another meltdown that he could never pull himself out of, only tire himself from.

Din shifts his weight on his feet. The baby still has his hands on the boy’s hip, staring up at him with sad eyes before he finally looks towards Din. He makes a whimper, barely heard over the sobs, and pats the boy’s side while staring at Din.

_ Help. _

Din tightens his jaw, then walks to the food drawers nearby, pulling them open. He takes out a packaged water and a packet of freeze-dried fruits before he walks back over. “When’s the last time you ate?” he says, crouching down beside the kid and holding them out. 

The kid looks over. His face is a mess of tears and snot, eyes red-rimmed and expression miserable. He looks at the food, then just shakes his head and hides his face again.

“Come on,” Din says, his tone level but not commanding. “At least take the water. Dehydration will make you feel worse.”

This feels… so unsettling. For him to be comforting a child version of himself, if… if that’s even the scenario here. If he’s trying to coax  _ himself  _ to eat. But the kid looks again, and despite the impossibility of what’s in front of him, it’s… so  _ familiar.  _ The clothes, the pain, the emotions. Some part of him is willing to… consider what’s in front of him.

The kid still takes great, shuddering breaths, tears streaming down his face. But he wipes with his sleeve and takes the water with a shaking hand. He uncurls just a little, feet sliding forward on the floor as he pries open the top. The baby sees the chance and takes it, making a hop before he climbs into the boy’s lap and settles on his stomach. The boy tilts his head back to take a few gulps, then takes more deep breaths, staring down at the baby.

“W-What is he?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” Din says. And he doesn’t. He has no fucking clue what the baby is aside from being a sorcerer. But he’ll take the distraction. “But he’s my son.”

“Oh,” the boy says, and he takes another sip. He still sniffs and wipes at his face. Din holds out the fruit packet and he takes that too, setting the water down to open it. The baby takes the next chance, crawling up higher on the boy’s abdomen beneath his arms, lying down as flat as he can manage as he stares up. The boy cracks a smile and pets his head, earning a pleased trill from the baby. He continues to pet him and the baby closes his eyes, expression turned from sad to delighted. “He’s cute.”

“Yeah,” Din says. He sits down cross-legged, watching the two. “He is.”

After a few minutes, the fruit is opened and the boy begins to nibble on a piece, arms tucked in around the baby. He shifts a little lower, more angled down, and the baby squirms until he can move up more onto his chest. The baby coos, then reaches up and pats his hand against the boy’s jaw. The boy giggles, really smiling, and Din feels an ache in his chest. Then the baby pats again and looks to Din.

It’s a pointed gaze. After a few seconds, he lifts his hand to his own cheek and pushes.

Din shakes his head.

He can’t.

He  _ can’t  _ take it off.

Right?

But the baby makes a whine, cuddling down against the boy’s chest, watching Din. Din frowns. He can take the helmet off in front of the baby—he’s his son, and the Way permits it. But the boy…

_ If he’s you, then you share a face. Your face is his and his face is yours. _

But what if he isn’t…

Din swallows, then gets up. “We’re going to a place called Nevarro,” he says. “I have a friend, we’re going to meet with her. Then we’ll… figure all this out.”

The boy nods, nibbling on another piece of fruit, and he takes the water again. At least he’s eating, and his face is still a mess but the baby seems to be a good distraction. He could be sharing happier emotions, for all Din knows. His son doesn’t make any indication of wanting to come up with him, so Din takes a long deep breath and walks to the ladder to head up.

“W-Wait,” the boy calls. “You didn’t say your name.”

Din pauses, one hand and foot on the rungs, and glances back. The boy is looking at him, but then he shrinks back.

“Mandalorians don’t have names,” he says, before he climbs up into the cockpit.

When they touch down on Nevarro, the kids have stayed down in the cargo hold. He can hear a quiet voice—his  _ own voice _ as a child—talking, can just barely hear the baby’s responsive trills. As they settle on the planet’s surface, just outside the town, he can hear sniffles. With a deep breath, he powers down the ship and gets up, walking to the ladder.

He climbs down into the hold. The boy is sitting in the same spot as before, still curled in on himself. He’s sniffling, an exhausted look to him, tears fresh, but still smiling. The baby is sitting in front of him, levitating several toys in a circle above his head. The boy giggles, then stops and looks over at Din, the smile fading.

“We’re here,” Din says, trying to keep his voice gentle. “Come on.”

The boy is slow to get up, as though untrusting of what Din says—or just afraid of him. The baby waddles over to Din and shrieks as he’s scooped up, happily curling against his shoulder. Din walks to the door and presses the button for the door to open and the ramp to extend. The boy walks over, his feet dragging, hugging himself.

Din feels like he should say something. He just doesn’t know what.

They walk off the ramp and towards the town; the sun is setting, casting a glow over the buildings. Returning here again and again is how they stay afloat, taking hunt after hunt to earn money.  _ Maintain your legend,  _ Karga had said to goad him into coming back.  _ The greatest hunter the Guild has ever seen. _

Now, he wears a smirk whenever Din walks into the common house, as though Cara wasn’t the one to convince him.

Nevarro has more or less returned to normal since Gideon’s occupation and they walk past several varieties of residents, from small and alien to normal humans. The kid trails behind him, just off his shoulder, until the crowding tightens and they’re surrounded by more people. Then his hand is grabbed and squeezed, and Din takes his own grip on the kid’s hand, tugging him close. The kid practically molds against his side, his hood up but eyes wide as he stares at it all. The crowd thins again, giving them more room to breathe, but the kid still grips his hand.

Cara’s apartment looks identical to the other housing units, but he walks to the familiar door—a Resistance symbol proudly painted on it, a sun bleached orange against the grey—and knocks. He’s greeted with silence. He frowns, then knocks again. There’s a good chance if she’s not here, she’s at the common house. Not that he wants to take two kids there with him. There’s a smaller, but still worrying chance that Cara is off planet, and will be for some time.

_ “Osik,”  _ he mutters, and tries another knock. He should’ve fucking messaged ahead of their arrival. He would’ve thought to if not for the existential crisis standing next to him. “Cara!”

Still no answer. He sighs, takes a breath, resigning himself to dragging two children into a hunter’s den to search for his friend. “Come on—“ he starts.

“Mando?”

He looks up and over at Cara, who’s walking over. She’s got a satchel slung over his shoulder as though just returning—different clothes now, but mostly following the style and color scheme she had before. Her hair is a similar length, but it’s been braided back differently each time Din sees her. Today, it’s braided tight across the front to keep her hair away. In his arms, the baby squeals and Cara smiles.

“Hey, bean—” she starts, but then her eyes drift to the child holding Din’s hand and the smile fades into a look of confusion. “... Hello.”

“Hi,” the child says, holding on tight to Din’s hand and still stuck to his side. Cara shoots Din a questioning look, head tilted to the side.

“Did you… steal another child?”

“What? No,” Din says. “Look—we need to talk. It’s important.”

Cara stares at him a moment, then nods. “Sure,” she says. She steps past them to the door—giving the baby a little tap on the nose, which makes him squeal—and inputs the code. The door shoots open and she walks inside, Din following. The kid follows along.

Cara’s home, like most other homes are Nevarro, is small and compact, suitable for one person but too small for even a small family. There’s a table with two chairs in the kitchen, a small room with a sofa and HoloNet computer, two small bedrooms and a closet. It’s a decent personal space, a great setup for someone like Cara.

Cara leaves her bag by the door and they walk in, first to the kitchen. “Did you at least name this one?” she asks, voice echoing in the space. “Got a name, kid?”

“Cara—“

“Din Djarin,” the boy says.

Cara stops and turns around, staring at the kid, then up at Din. Din feels creeping dread in his shoulders, then turns and crouches down. “You have some toys here, yeah?” he says to the baby, placing him on the floor. “How about you show…  _ Din  _ your toys?”

The baby coos and makes straight for the sitting room, where a couple of toys are stored in a box beside the sofa. The boy gives him an uncertain look, then follows. Din lets out a breath, then stands and walks to Cara.

“Mando—” she hisses, but he grabs her by the arm and pulls her with him into the next room. Once the two kids are out of sight, he stops and turns. She pulls her arm back and crosses them, giving him a  _ look.  _ “You took another—a kid? A foundling? You took another foundling and named him  _ before  _ the little one, named him after  _ yourself—” _

“He’s not mine,” Din snaps back. “He’s not my kid, I didn’t name him, and I know it’s insane but I think he’s  _ me.” _

Cara stops, shifting her weight back, staring at him. “... What?”

Din takes a deep breath. “You’re going to think I’m out of my mind.  _ I  _ think I’m out of my mind. But I think this kid is…  _ me.  _ When I was eight. When my parents died.”

Cara’s eyes are wide. “You. When you were eight. You think  _ you  _ from being eight years old is  _ here?” _

“Yes, and I know how it sounds, I  _ know.  _ But I can’t come up with a single other explanation. I remember wearing those clothes. He gave  _ my  _ name as  _ his  _ name. He described what happened—that battle, how my parents died. I think I’m going insane about this, but… he made the kid freak out.”

“The kid,” Cara says.

“The—him. He just… appeared outside the ship when we were getting repairs done. The baby found him. That kid appeared and the baby was freaking out ever since. Crying like there was no tomorrow. When he did an emotional link, it felt like—like he was trying to tell me. Everything about the universe felt  _ wrong.  _ That I’d… become two.” He takes a deep breath. “Two for him. He could sense that.”

Cara just stares at him.

Din lets out a frustrated huff, then leans back against the nearest wall. “I know.”

“You don’t think this is a… trick?” Cara says. “Some ruse to get near you? We know Gideon survived. It could be him.”

“That’s what I thought,” Din says. “But there’s details… details that Gideon couldn’t know. The Mandalorians recorded information about  _ me,  _ not my childhood. Not what I looked like.  _ I  _ don’t even know what I looked like then. Only now. It’s… an uncomfortable similarity.”

“So it’s you,” Cara says, “before you became a foundling.”

“I… think,” Din says. “I was found… It’s gotten hazy. But there wasn’t really time in between. My parents were killed with an explosion. A droid was about to kill me. Then… a Mandalorian saved me. My  _ buir.  _ He flew me out of the battle.”

Cara crosses her arms.

“I think in between, somehow, in that time frame,” Din says. “I don’t think he… I…  _ he  _ was saved yet. He’s… a little scared of me. I don’t get the sense that he’s met a Mandalorian before. I knew about them, but they were as good as legends then.”

Cara nods slowly. “You’re getting me convinced,” she mutters. “There’s… no way this could be a trick?”

“I’d be more inclined to think that if the kid wore training gear and was pretending to be me as an initiate,” Din says. “There were records of that time. Records about me and my training—the Fighting Corps was meticulous about tracking progress. He would know the clan I was placed with, who my caretaker was.” He pauses. “... The Mandalorians didn’t track foundlings’ pasts. If you had no other family and a warrior took you in, then it was their responsibility to help you settle. There’s no records. Everyone who would’ve known is dead. Gideon  _ can’t  _ know.”

Cara stares at him—and he knows he’s just dumped more personal information on her in that moment than she’d ever known from the past year. But he can’t care. He  _ needs  _ her to understand. He needs the validation that he isn’t going insane.

“Okay,” she finally says. “I’ve  _ never  _ seen you this rattled.”

_ Rattled  _ feels like an understatement.

“I don’t know what to do,” Din says, letting out a shaking breath. “I can—I supported my whole covert on my hunting fees. I can adjust how I work and spend to support another kid. But I  _ don’t want to.  _ I don’t want another kid and I don’t want a kid who’s apparently  _ me  _ from the  _ past—” _

“Din!” Cara grabs him by the arms, her grip tight and painful, dragging his focus back. “You’re freaking out. And you have every right to be. But whether they’re you or not, this is a  _ child  _ and we have to figure this out.”

“... We,” Din breathes.

“Yeah, we. I’m not letting you do this alone and muck it up.” Cara steps back. “Look. I was just on a hunt and I’m starving. We can make dinner, eat, and send those two to bed. Then we talk more and we figure it out. Okay?”

Din swallows. “I don’t know that I deserve you,” he says.

“You don’t,” Cara says, and she walks to the kitchen, giving his pauldron a pat as she goes by. “Come help.”

There’s nothing that separates the kitchen from the sitting room, aside from where the wall turns into appliances. There’s a clear view from each room into the other, and it’s an unintentional game of one person looking while the other three don’t.

Dinner is a simple meat stew, and Din does whatever Cara shoves at him. Cutting vegetables is an easy task, but not distracting from the current situation. His jetpack is off, set into Cara’s storage closet to keep the weight off his back. Behind them, the kids play—though, when he looks, it’s the baby playing while the kid watches. He’ll hold whatever toy the baby gives him, but he watches and laughs more than he tries to play, too. When Din looks over his shoulder, he might not even be watching. Just staring into space.

Sometimes, when he looks, the baby is looking back with a sad expression, as though he knows the distractions are hopeless.

“Have you said anything to him?” Cara mutters beneath her breath. She steps away and grabs a small device off the other side of the counter. She adjusts its settings, then music begins to play, a song cutting in from midway. It’s something popular that he’s heard when skimming through frequencies. The kids look over, then back to the toys. She sets it down.

“No.” Din dumps the vegetables into the cooker. The music adds another buffer to their conversation. “Don’t know what I’d say.”

“Yeah. Me neither.” Cara lets out a sigh. “... Is there something—some detail you remember? Something to really confirm it?”

Din sets his hands on the counter. “I… have a birthmark,” he says. He gestures to his left side. “It’s big, white, covers this area. I was checking him to see if he was hurt when he first appeared. It’s the exact same. There’s no way someone could just recreate it.”

“Couldn’t do a side by side view without telling him.” Cara shakes her head. “It… it really sounds like the only explanation. But I can’t think of  _ how.” _

“It’s time travel,” Din says. “We can’t travel in time. But he did.”

“Sounds like the universe gave itself indigestion,” Cara sighs. She closes the lid and sets the stew to cook. “Think of options. You’ve got another foundling, and you said you don’t want another kid. Forget that he’s… you. What would you do with that kid?”

“... I—“

“Not now,” Cara says. “Just keep it in mind. And even with all this, I’m not forgetting that you said you’d have a name for the little one when you came back.”

Din watches her walk away, into the sitting room with an enthusiastic greeting for the baby. She’s just as wrapped around his clawed fingers as he is, he thinks, as the baby squeals in delight for her. The kid looks up too and smiles a little, then looks past her to Din.

Din swallows, leaning back against the counter to watch.

Dinner doesn’t take much longer and Cara doesn’t have enough chairs, so three bowls are made up and they each sit somewhere in the sitting room. Cara is fine with the floor beside the kid while Din and the baby are on the sofa. His own bowl is kept warm for him so he focuses on feeding the little one. It’s a wonderful meal—the baby will actually eat vegetables with it, the meat flavored broth enough of a disguise.

The kid is silent as they eat. Din and Cara make small talk—mostly about the Guild. Din keeps the language vague and Cara follows his lead. He just… isn’t sure about the kid knowing what he does for a career.

The thought of him knowing makes him sick. If he knows about his situation, if he knows he’ll become a bounty hunter—he’ll have to know about the fall of Mandalore. He’ll have to know about the Night of A Thousand Tears, about the occupation, about the Purge.  _ Why  _ a Mandalorian becomes a bounty hunter.

Soon the food is gone and the baby is sleepy, cuddling against Din. The kid, too, is looking tired. So Din takes the baby into his arms, calls the kid over, and goes to the spare bedroom. He usually sleeps here if he has to stay overnight so the bed is made, untouched from the last time. Cara is enough of a minimalist that it hasn’t been turned into storage. Settling the kid in on one side of the bed is easy when he’s already tired.

“You can sleep here,” he tells the kid.

“Where are you sleeping?” the kid asks.

“I can sleep on the sofa,” Din says. The kid frowns, but Din pulls back the comforter and the kid climbs in. He lays it back over him. “... Night, Din.”

“Night,” the kid whispers.

He nods. The baby coos at him, a soft reminder, and Din stops before coming to his side and sitting beside him. He leans down to bump his forehead against the baby’s, and he receives a grumpy but satisfied coo. “I know,” he mumbles. He usually has his helmet off for the goodnight kiss. But he’s not going to take his helmet off in front of the kid.

He still isn’t sure if it violates the rules.

He walks out, then, turns off the lights, and returns to where Cara is wiping down the bowls and putting them away. He sits at the table, waiting, until she closes the cabinets and then takes the other seat. For a long while, they just look at each other.

“... I would take him to the covert,” he says.

Cara looks up.

“If this were normal,” he says. “If I came across a foundling and didn’t want to care for them… finding the child doesn’t mean you have to be the one who cares for him. Before the Purge, that happened. A soldier would find the kid but someone else would volunteer to raise them as their clan’s own. So if… things were normal. I’d just take him to the covert and someone would raise him.”

At first, Cara doesn’t speak, a gap of silence between them. “... But you can’t,” she says. “Your covert was…”

“Destroyed,” Din says, because it hurts but there’s no point in beating around it.

“So there’s no one else.”

“No one. At all.” Din sucks in a breath. “I don’t… have any blood relatives. No one from my birth family. The Mandalorians wouldn’t have taken me in otherwise. There’s no possible family I could get him to.”

Cara lets out a breath. “If he got here, there has to be a way to get back.”

“Not that I could think of,” Din says. “If I’m right, then—he had a droid pointing a blaster at him when he got here. I was just getting supplies on the ship. I don’t see a real trigger in either of those things.”

“Hm,” Cara says.

They’re silent again. Din stares at the wood of the table, then just sighs. Cara looks as resigned as he feels, and he takes a long deep breath. They both stare into space, minds searching but not coming up with anything new. Finally, Cara looks up.

“You’re still a Mandalorian,” she says.

Din looks up. “Yes?”

“You’re  _ still  _ a Mandalorian,” she says. She points down to the bedrooms. “Your child self is  _ here  _ but you’re still a Mandalorian. You’re still in front of me. You’re not suddenly younger now or—or somebody else. Someone other than the Din Djarin I know.”

Din pauses, thinking on that.

“Your timeline, Din,” she says. “He’s here but your timeline hasn’t changed. This is just a theory and I have no evidence for it, but I think if he were stuck to grow up here, that would have messed with  _ you.  _ Unless…”

“Unless what?”

“Unless… that theory of multiple timelines?” Cara’s voice is a little higher, unsure. “If this is a child you from a different timeline?”

_ “Different timeline,”  _ Din says. “That’s a little—”

“Don’t tell me it’s crazy,” Cara says. “I would’ve said it was crazy if you hadn’t come here claiming that kid was a child version of you. The threshold for  _ impossible  _ has changed here.”

Din stares at her. “I don’t  _ know  _ what’s impossible anymore,” he says. “But that’s not it.” He lets out a heavy breath. “If there’s… timelines. Multiple timelines. And a child me got taken from one and dropped… here. And he  _ doesn’t go back.” _ His voice is tight. “What happens to the  _ baby  _ in that timeline?”

Cara swallows. “If that’s the case, then we… can’t know.”

“If there’s a timeline where—where I’m not saved. Or I don’t become a Mandalorian. Or…”

“Where Alderaan still exists?”

His head snaps up to look at Cara and feels a horrible jolt in his stomach.  _ You’re just thinking about yourself.  _ “R-Right,” he says. “Right. Anything. Anything could…”

“Din.” Cara reaches out and grabs his arm. “You’re forgetting to breathe.”

He feels hot all over, a little lightheaded. “Y-Yeah,” he says.  _ “Osik.” _

“When’s the last time you slept?” Cara gets up and goes to the cooker. She reaches up and grabs a bowl. Din’s stomach growls and he realizes he completely forgot to eat.

“Yesterday,” he says. “I think.”

“We’re both exhausted and freaked out,” she says, spooning the stew into the bowl. She grabs a fork and sticks it in, holding the bowl out to Din. “Eat. Sleep. If you can. Hell knows I won’t sleep after this.”

Din takes the bowl. His breath is shaky, his hands trembling, but she’s right and he just nods.

“We’ll talk some more in the morning,” she says. “You can stay as long as you need. We’re not on any timeli…” she pauses. “There’s no rush.”

“Thank you,” Din says.

She nods, then walks past and towards her room. Din stares down at the food, then turns in the chair. “Cara.”

She stops and looks back.

“I was… thinking of naming him Kuiil.”

She looks at him, then begins to smile. “He would’ve liked that,” she says, her voice soft. Then she turns again and disappears into her room.

Din lets out a breath. He sets the bowl on the table, then reaches up and takes off his helmet. He sets it on the table beside him, picking up the fork, then stops and stares into the visor.

He tries to imagine not having it at all.


	2. Another Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nevarro is fairly quiet, and the kid follows at his side down the street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Din tries to cope with his situation.
> 
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The baby is the one who decides when morning is. He wakes up on his own with grogginess at first until the sleep begins to disappear and he’s  _ hungry.  _ Hunger is a problem that only his big people can solve, and a very big problem that demands full attention. He crawls out of bed and drops down to the floor, wandering to the door.

In the doorway, he stops. He looks back at the person also lying in the bed, fast asleep, and feels the energy that translates in the Force. It tells him that his father is lying in that bed, but he knows  _ that is not his father. _

His father is… elsewhere.

That’s odd.

He’s hungry.

He marches out of the bedroom on a mission to find his father, but is quickly sidetracked by the presence in the next bedroom. His beloved aunt is one of the big ones who can fix his hunger problem, so he reaches up a hand and opens the door. He doesn’t need more than the dim light to see, able to sense his way through, but he knows that the others can’t do the same. He holds up a hand to the light switch and the lights brighten.

Right away, there’s a mumble from the bed.

The baby comes to the bed and climbs up with determination, summiting the mattress before he waddles to where Cara lies. Her eyes are closed but she shifts and he can sense that she’s nearly awake. He plops down beside her, then reaches out and pushes at her arm, letting out a trill.

The success is instant. Cara jerks awake -- and he doesn’t  _ mean  _ to startle her -- but she looks over at him and relaxes with a smile. “... Morning, bean,” she says, a hoarseness in her voice that his father has when he wakes up, too.

He responds with a happy trill, then sticks his tongue out.

“Mm. You want food?”

He makes another trill.

Cara smiles, then lies back down and stretches her arms out. “Go get your dad,” she says. “Make sure he’s got that bucket on. Then we’ll get to feeding you. Sound good?”

Anything involving both food and his father sounds wonderful, so the baby makes an affirmative coo before he retraces his steps. He climbs down from the bed, then out into the hallway, leading down to the sitting room.

He can sense his father’s presence here, slightly muted in the way that indicates sleep. On a mission, he wanders closer, then around the side of the sofa. His father is here, stretched out on the cushions. His helmet is removed and resting on the table. Alongside it are his pauldrons, or as the kid calls them,  _ more shiny things.  _ His bandolier and utility belt are discarded too, though the kid doesn’t care much for those.

“Aaah,” he calls, stopping beside the sofa. His father’s breath pauses, but little else. He steps up to the sofa—it’s a difficult challenge to climb. He reaches his hands up. “Aaaaaaaah!”

There’s little reaction. The baby pouts, then instead steps back. He thrusts his hands down and  _ leaps.  _ He commands the Force to propel him, and it listens, giving him a push that lets him squeak and land on the top of the couch, right beside his father’s body. He makes a satisfied trill, then climbs up onto his father’s chest. He crawls up to his head, then plants two hands against his jaw.

_ Wake up! _ he commands.  _ Wake up! _

His father jolts, eyes flying open to stare at him, and the baby laughs. His father relaxes after a moment and lets out a breath. He gives his eyes a rub, then sits up, letting the baby fall back and be caught in his hands. He’s still giggling, staring up at his guardian.

“Guess it’s morning.”

The baby smiles.

His father turns and the kid is put down on the sofa beside him. He watches, patting the cushions, as the helmet goes on, then the pauldrons and belts. Once it’s all secured, he’s scooped up into his father’s arms.

“I’m up,” his father calls out.

They walk into the kitchen together and sit at the table. A few minutes later, Cara walks in, and she gives them both a sleepy smile. But the kid is hungry, and that’s a problem they’re meant to solve. He grabs his father’s hand and pulls, letting out an urgent trill.

“He needs breakfast,” Din says, looking down at the kid. “Or he might combust.”

Cara snorts. “So impatient,” she says. “There’s some meat leftover in the conservator.”

Leaving the baby on the chair, Din gets up and walks to the conservator. The meat is stored there and he takes it out to throw on a thermapad. As it begins to heat up, Cara is pulling things out to throw together a breakfast.

“So,” she says. Din walks to the coffee machine and checks that it’s prepared before hitting  _ start.  _ “Kuiil for a name.”

“I thought it’d be nice,” Din says. “An homage to him.”

“He died protecting him,” Cara says. “I think it’s a good name.” She smiles, then sets down a container and walks over to the kid, scooping him up. He makes a happy coo. “Kuiil, huh? You like that name, if we called you Kuiil?”

He giggles.

“I think that’s a yes,” Cara says, setting him on her hip. She returns to the counter and continues pouring a powder into some bowls. “It’s about  _ time  _ you had a name.”

Din rolls his eyes. “Bold words from someone who doesn’t do the  _ baby thing,”  _ he says. “The image in front of me is rather contrarian to that.”

_ “This  _ baby, I like,” Cara says, giving the kid a point. “And besides. It’s not the  _ baby  _ thing. It’s the  _ aunt  _ thing. As far as I’m aware, I’m doing it pretty damn well.”

“Aside from swearing in front of him,” Din says, “yeah. Pretty well.” The coffee machine makes a chirp upon finishing and he grabs mugs to pour. He sets one down by Cara, leaving a mug empty for himself later.

“It’s not like he understands. Just the emotions.” Cara shrugs, then pours water into the bowls and mixes it. The resulting expanded mush doesn’t look like much, but with sweetener added in, it’s always been a fine breakfast. “Is the mini-you up?”

“I don’t know.” The thermapad beeps and he takes the meat off, then steps past Cara and takes a bowl to put it in. The baby— _ Kuiil— _ sniffs the air and makes a coo, reaching out towards him. Cara leans her hip out and Din maneuvers the kid into his arm before returning to the table with him. “Careful. It needs to cool first.”

Kuiil reaches in anyway, but stops before touching and pulls back at the steam. He lets out a great big huff before he sits.

Cara is setting Din and the kid’s breakfasts on the thermapad when the boy steps into the kitchen, rubbing at his eyes with his fist. “Good morning,” he says in a soft, sleep-heavy voice.

“Morning,” Din and Cara say. Kuiil makes a squeak in greeting. Cara hands a bowl of food to the kid as Din picks up pieces of meat to feed to the baby. The kid gives a quiet  _ thank you  _ and at first looks unsure of himself before taking the other seat at the table. He gives a glance to Din before starting to eat, taking a spoonful of the mush and blowing.

“Karga left a message this morning,” Cara says. She leans against the counter, her bowl in one hand while the other holds her coffee. She takes a sip. “He’s seen the  _ Razor Crest  _ but no you. Says he has a job you’d like.”

“That means a job I will  _ not  _ like,” Din says. He sighs, feeding Kuiil another piece. “Tell him I’m busy.”

“That won’t stop him from bothering you about it,” Cara says with a shrug, “but I already said that.”

“Good—”

“Um.”

They both look at the kid, who’s been quietly eating but now looks at Din. The baby isn’t concerned, reaching for more meat. The kid looks uncertain, glancing at Cara, but shifts. “I… uh. Why don’t you eat? Or… take the helmet off?”

“I take it off,” Din says. “Not in front of others.”

The kid frowns. “Why?”

He’s certain that he gave his finder the exact same look when he’d first learned of the rule. “This is the Way,” he says.

The kid frowns further, then looks down at his bowl. Din feeds Kuiil another piece, then shifts. “I can take it off in front of him,” he says, pointing to the kid. “By Mandalorian customs, he’s my son and allowed to see my face. But not her. Not anyone else. If someone sees me, then I can’t put the helmet back on again. I’m not a Mandalorian anymore.”

“You… just stop being one?” the kid whispers.

“Yes. We call it  _ dar’manda.  _ No longer Mandalorian.”

“Aren’t you… aren’t you born a Mandalorian?”

Din shifts, then glances towards Cara, who only shrugs and takes another sip. He takes a moment to think on his words before he says them, feeding another piece to Kuiil. Kuiil chews on the meat, making happy little growls.

“I wasn’t born a Mandalorian,” he says. “I was… a foundling. I was an orphan. The Mandalorians found me and raised me as one of their own. It’s not just a race. It’s a way of living. Anyone can give that up. Anyone can become  _ dar’manda.”  _ He takes a breath. “Showing my face to someone outside of my clan... is one way for that.”

The kid stares at him, then nods, still frowning. But he takes another bite of food, somewhat satisfied with that. Din gives Kuiil the last piece of meat, who continues to eat like the tension in the room is completely unimportant in comparison to his food.

Then Kuiil finishes and turns to the edge of the table. He crouches down and makes a demanding trill. Din picks him up and sets him down on the floor. He immediately wanders under the table and towards the toys that were left in the living room. Before he reaches them, he turns and lets out a loud trill in the kid’s direction.

The kid looks over.

“He wants you to play with him,” Din says.

The kid looks at him, then takes another bite of food before he gets up and walks over. Kuiil makes a happy coo, then puts out a hand and lifts a toy soldier up to him. The kid takes it and sits down.

Cara walks over and fills the seat, pushing the kid’s bowl aside to put her coffee down. “... You can show him your face,” she says, her voice hushed. “It has to be an exception. He’s  _ you.  _ He’ll have your face in -- what, thirty years? That can’t possibly be something that excommunicates you.”

Din takes a deep breath. “I… don’t know,” he says. “If he is, then yes. It  _ should  _ be allowed. But it feels like… a risk. It took me forever to show the ba… Kuiil my face. If he’s not…  _ me,  _ then I show him my face and I’ve screwed myself for no reason.”

Cara sighs. “I… have my thoughts about the helmet thing,” she says.

“I know,” Din says.

“But you were going to die to keep it on so I can’t…  _ not  _ understand why you do it. I know you won’t willingly do anything that might compromise your Creed.” Cara glances towards the kids as they play. “... Din. I’m really convinced now that he’s you. And I think you should talk to him about it.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“It’s too much. He’s a kid. He won’t be able to handle all of it, he’s… fragile right now. I was fragile.” He bites his lip. “I wouldn’t even know what to say.”

Cara glances at the boy. He’s holding the warrior figure and x-wing that the kid handed to him. “He seems like he’s coping,” she says. “All things considered, he’s holding together.”

“He’s distracted,” Din mutters. “It must be distractions. I wasn’t like this. I was… a mess in the war camp after the battle. I didn’t have anything else to think about.”

“Yeah, time travel must be distracting,” Cara says. She takes another sip, finishing the drink. “... But you should talk to him more. If he doesn’t go back, then he’s stuck on your hands. Might as well try to get him more comfortable.” She hums. “Maybe new clothes. Those are too nice, anyway.”

“Too nice,” Din says.

“Yeah. While he’s here, you’ll have to present him as a bounty hunter’s kid, right?” Cara smiles at him. “You can’t look like a Mandalorian and have him dressed looking high class.”

“... High class,” Din says.

Cara rolls her eyes. “Din,” she says. “Those clothes look finely made. That decoration on the front sells it. I don’t know if you were actually born in an upper class, but he  _ looks  _ like he could be. He needs a clothing change. Draw fewer eyes than you already do.”

Din frowns. He… doesn’t remember much of his life before. It’s bits and pieces that might or might not fit together. The suggestion that he was upper class is… he doesn’t know. But it doesn’t matter.

“There’s clothing vendors in the bazaar,” Cara continues. “Two guys showed up a few months ago, started selling some well made things. They brag about style but they’ve got some things that are more sturdy than stylish, you’ll want something like that. If they don’t have something that fits, they’d probably be able to tailor it for a few more credits.”

“Okay,” Din says.

“You should eat and then take him,” she says. “Let the bean and I catch up.”

Din nods. His stomach growls, so he gets up and grabs the mug off the counter, setting it in the coffee machine to fill as he takes his breakfast. “Sure,” he says. He grabs a spoon, then the mug, and steps into the next room.

_ Maker, he needs to pull himself together. _

Din finishes eating quickly, both food and coffee downed, and he pulls his helmet back on before he walks out to the living room. Cara is kneeling on the floor, a holopad in front of her, and Kuiil on the other side. He taps at the screen with giggles, delighted by it. The kid is curled up on the couch, tucked against the arm, staring at the floor with a glassy expression on his face.

As Din walks over, both Cara and Kuiil look up at him. Cara’s smile fades and she nods towards the kid. “Go with him,” she mouths, and Kuiil turns to look at the boy with a conflicted expression.

“Yeah,” Din mutters. He doesn’t want to. “Hey… uh. Din.”

The boy looks over. His eyes are red-rimmed but he still looks relatively put together. Din shifts his weight. “There’s a bazaar down the street,” he says. “Let’s go get you some clothes.”

The kid sniffles, then wipes at his eyes again and gets up. His shoes were left in the bedroom so he walks to get those as Din goes to the front door. Not seconds later is there a shriek, a soft ‘hey’ from Cara, and Kuiil comes running around the corner with a sad expression. He stops and holds his arms up.

“You’re not coming,” Din says, and he crouches down to the baby’s level. “The kid and I are going. You get to stay here with Cara and have some fun. Okay?”

Cara appears around the corner as Kuiil stares up at him, head tilting to the side with an  _ “eh?” _

“He thinks you’re talking about him,” Cara says. “He thinks he’s the kid.”

“No,” Din says quickly. He points to Cara. “You stay here. We’ll be right back.”

“Come on, bean.” Cara steps forward and snatches up the baby, giving him a toss into the air. Kuiil shrieks and laughs as he’s caught. “We’ll paint our nails and gossip about your dad until he’s back.” Kuiil giggles and curls up into her shoulder, giving Din a little wave instead.

Din smiles to himself.

The boy comes out then with his shoes on and hood up, arms tight around himself. Din opens the door and is about to step out when there’s a loud trill from behind. Kuiil stares at him now with big eyes and reaches up to pat his face.

“Right,” Din says. “Forgot.”

Cara just smiles and holds him out as Din steps up, leaning down to bump their foreheads together.  _ “Yaimpar,”  _ he murmurs, and Kuiil coos. Then he pulls away and Cara holds him to her shoulder again. Two fingers get shoved into the toddler’s mouth as he waves again with his other hand.

With that, they walk outside and the door closes.

Nevarro is fairly quiet, and the kid follows at his side down the street. It’s a longer walk than to the common house, but only a turn keeps the bazaar out of sight. He can hear the kid sniffle on the occasion, but neither speak.

“What’s that language?”

Din looks down at the boy, then up again. “Mando’a,” he says. “Mandalorians speak it.”

“... Is it secret?”

“Secret,” Din says.

“Yeah. Secret language. Like code.”

Din makes a face. “... No,” he says. “It’s not.”

“Can you teach me some?”

Din lets out a breath. “Yeah. Sure. A few things.”

He isn’t sure about that. While it’s still a question of whether or not the kid can be sent home, Din is still  _ concerned  _ about what to share or not. But it puts a smile on the kid’s face, so, well,  _ maybe a few words won’t hurt. _

It’s turning to late morning as they arrive at the bazaar, so the business of the day is already in swing. It’s not terribly crowded though, leaving them plenty of room to walk. A small hand grabs his and squeezes. He allows it, giving a squeeze back, as they walk past tables with cooking lunch and shiny baubles. The kid’s feet slow as he stops to stare, but Din gives him a pull and he follows.

The clothing sellers aren’t hard to find; they have a large setup compared to the rest of the vendors, their attire laid out on display. They’re both already tending to another man when Din and the kid walk up, but one turns and sees them. He has a big smile as he comes over.

“Good morning, my good sirs,” he says. His voice is higher and dramatic, his clothing similar to what’s on the table -- well made and fashionable, but sturdy and right for living on Nevarro. He makes a flourishing hand gesture to the clothes laid out on display. “We have all sorts of sizes and styles, made to last and with the latest Core styles.”

Din glances at the outfits. “He needs something in his size,” he says, tilting his head down to the kid. “Something simple for travel.”

“Hmm.” The man reaches down and grabs a small device, then steps around from behind the table. “Hold your arms out for me, love.”

The kid lifts his arms out. A marked line snaps out and the tailor measures his arm, then the spread of his chest and length of his legs. “Hmm,” he says, giving the kid a once over before he turns and walks back around the table. He pulls something out, seeming to shuffle through fabrics. The kid looks up at Din, who only looks back. The tailor pops back up with a shirt. “Ah,” he says, coming around again. He holds the shirt up to the kid. “... This may fit.”

It does look well fitted, but Din frowns. “He’s growing,” he says. “Need bigger.”

“Yes, I see,” the tailor says, and he again steps back to look.

The kid grabs Din’s hand and tugs. “What’s wrong with my clothes?” he asks.

“Nothing,” Din says. “But you need more.”

The kid just nods.

The tailor returns with another shirt, and this one is slightly bigger, enough to fit but with some bagginess. With it comes a pair of trousers, also allowing a bit more growing room. “The sleeve cuffs will be loose,” the tailor says, “but this will last long and leave growing room.”

“That’s all we need,” Din says.

He ends up paying more than he originally intends, but the cream colored tunic and rich brown trousers are what they’re looking for. He buys two sets of each, along with a fleece jacket that can go with both and a pair of sturdier boots. To combat the sleeves, he grabs a pair of brown bracers, too. With significantly fewer credits, they begin to walk back to Cara’s, the clothes held in the boy’s arms while Din holds the shoes and bracers.

“You always wear armor?” he asks.

Din glances down. “Yes,” he says.

“It’s shiny.”

“It’s beskar.” When he’s given an odd look, he clarifies. “Mandalorian iron. A metal from Mandalore and its moon. Only our smiths know how to truly craft with it.”

“It’s special metal.”

“Yeah, special. It’s sacred to us.”

The kid nods. “You know how to fight? And shoot?”

“Yes.”

“I wish I could. Papa said I—” he pauses. The kid swallows. “I don’t need to know. To fight.”

“Everyone should be able to protect themselves,” Din says. “Cara would teach you some things if you wanted.”

“Are you going to marry her?”

Din stops in his tracks at that. “What?”

“Cara. It seemed like…” The kid stares up at him, then frowns and his gaze falls to the clothes in his arms, starting to look uncomfortable. “Like you were…”

“We’re not…” Din pauses. “No. We’re not a… couple. She’s my friend.”

“Sorry,” the kid whispers.

“No,” he says quickly. “It’s fine. I know why you’d think that. But we’re not.”

The kid still looks embarrassed, so Din doesn’t try to make him live it longer. He starts walking again and the kid follows just behind him. Cara’s is only another minute away and he hits the door to open, stepping inside and out of the sun. The kid follows in and Din shuts the door behind him.

_ “Ad’ika,”  _ he calls, putting the shoes down by the door. 

At first, there’s quiet. Din straightens up and frowns, then looks around. “Cara?” His voice echoes in the small space but he doesn’t receive a response. No voices, no footsteps, no giggles. Din feels that creeping dread and his hand drifts down to his holster. “Cara.  _ Ad’ika? Yaim!” _

Still, silence. Din steps further into the house; behind him, the kid is frozen, watching Din with big eyes. He draws his blaster and holds it down before walking into the living room. He leans over the sofa, but no one is there. The kitchen is empty. His heart is pounding. The space is small. There’s only so many hiding spots. He turns on his heel and walks to the bedrooms, going first for the guest.

_ “Ad’ika?” _

The door opens. The lights are on, and his heart is beating in his ears, but no one is in there. He scans the room over and over but there’s only dropped toys.

_ What the hell— _

Then there’s the tiniest shake, and Din stops to stare. He holsters his blaster and presses on his vambrace controls. His HUD switches to heat vision. The blanket is pulled up over the pillows, creating a slope, but beneath and between the pillows is a little ball of red heat.

In an instant he storms over and pulls the blanket back. He’s greeted with a giggling Kuiil who stares up at him with absolute entertainment, delighted from where he’s burrowed between the pillows. He holds his arms up and Din sighs, scooping him up. “Was this a game?” he demands. “To scare me?”

“Seems it worked.”

Din looks over at Cara, who steps in to lean against the doorway with a smile. He huffs and stands, cradling the cooing baby. “Doesn’t seem very  _ friendly  _ to do that.”

“Wasn’t my idea,” Cara says. “Kid kept putting himself there and trying to get me to go away. He’s a clever one.”

“Yeah,” Din grumbles.  _ “Clever.” _

“So was it a success?” Cara asks.

Din gets up and walks to the door. “Yeah,” he says. Kuiil coos and burrows into his shoulder. He steps past Cara and looks towards the door. “Hey, kid. Show them what you—Din?”

The kid is sitting on the floor, his back against the door. The clothes are still in his lap but he’s curled in tightly around them, hands trembling even as he grips the fabric of his trousers. A sob escapes, and Kuiil turns in Din’s arms, letting out a soft coo.

“I-I want to go home,” he sobs, more a squeak. He shakes all over, then takes a shuddering breath. “I want—I want—“

“What happened?” Cara says, voice full of concern. Din has to stop and think about it, mind searching for what had happened in the last two minutes.

“I pulled my gun. Must’ve scared him.” And it’s so damn familiar. His dreams after being found had been riddled with gunshots and explosions. He’d been terrified of any weapons, of guns and charges and anything new. He’d been sat down in a war camp surrounded by the things that terrified him. Those memories come rushing back as he takes a step towards the kid, then another.

“Din,” he says, sitting down a few feet away. God, the name sounds so foreign in his own mouth. Kuiil squirms out of his arms and onto the floor, waddling up to the kid to put hands against him. The kid just  _ cries,  _ the great terrible sobs that just sound painful. For a moment, the realization hits him that he’s on the complete other side of his past now. He’s not just trying to comfort a foundling. He’s trying to help  _ himself,  _ like his  _ buir  _ had done.

“Din,” he repeats. Until the kid looks up at him with splotchy red eyes and streaming tears, and his expression is twisted up with sobs but Din can’t miss the  _ bitterness  _ in his eyes. The veiled but growing frustration that stares back at him, and Maker, he  _ knows. _

This kid is him.

He’s looking at himself

“I want to go h- _ home,”  _ the kid snaps, both miserable and with that bitter edge. “I want Ma...ma. I want—I want  _ home!” _

“I know,” Din says. His voice is gentle, soft. There’s a strange sensation of calm that has come over him, and Kuiil stops to stare at him, head tilted. “... I know. You want to. But you can’t.”

The kid hiccups, then stops and stares up at him. “What?”

“You can’t go home,” Din says. He shakes his head. “There is no home. It doesn’t exist anymore. There isn’t a home to go back to.”

He’s stared at, then the kid gets up abruptly, the clothes falling from his lap to the floor and he backs away from Din, chest heaving. “You’re… no,” he says. “You’re lying. You’re being  _ mean.  _ I want  _ HOME!” _

It’s a scream that echoes around the apartment. Kuiil makes a frightened whimper and crawls into Din’s lap. Din makes a hand gesture behind his back, then picks up the baby and stands. He can hear Cara’s receding footsteps into her bedroom and the door closing.

She was right. And he knows.

“I’m not lying,” he says. “Your home doesn’t exist anymore. The people don’t exist. The buildings don’t exist. It’s all rubble. Almost everyone in your town was killed in that attack with few survivors.”

The kid looks at him with frustration and misery. “You…”

“Your parents were killed in an explosion and you were about to be killed by a Separatist B2 Super Battle droid,” Din continues. He keeps his voice soft, as though trying to lull the baby to sleep. “When a Mandalorian saved you. He flew you out of the battle to their camp. You were adopted into his clan and raised as one of them. As a Mandalorian. It became your identity. Who you are. Your entire being. All that mattered.”

“No,” the kid says, and he collapses to the ground again, curling in on himself like it will protect him from Din’s words. He lets out another sob. “No, no, n-no… That didn’t  _ happen!  _ You’re a  _ liar!” _

“I’m not.” Din sinks to a knee, then places Kuiil down.

He  _ knows  _ now.

He reaches for his helmet and slides it off. He places it on his other side with a soft  _ click  _ against the floor. The kid looks up and stares at him with tear-filled eyes, still hiccuping and gasping in breath. Din looks at him, his vision adjusting to the change.

“My name is Din Djarin,” he says. “I was born to Sula and Daro Djarin. My mother dressed me in the same clothes you’re wearing. I was eight years old when my home was destroyed by droids, and the Mandalorians saved me. I became a foundling. Grew up in the Fighting Corps.”

Kuiil hugs his leg, cooing up at him. Din puts a hand on his back, then looks up at the kid. He’s just staring at Din, a shocked expression on his face, one of complete disbelief. There was a better way to do this, he’s sure, but now it’s out there and now they’ll have to deal with it.

There’s just silence between them. The kid’s eyes move all over him, continuously coming back to his face. He’s never cared much for his appearance before aside from staying comfortable in the helmet, but he does wish -- somewhat -- that he’d at least shaved before doing this. He’s left with mussed hair that needs to be cut and the startings of a beard.

A minute passes. Kuiil starts to whine and pull at his hands.

Then the boy throws up into his lap.

“Do you think we need a medic?” Din says. He sits on the floor, Kuiil cradled in his arms as he naps. His stomach is turning with nerves and guilt, his practiced hard exterior becoming nothing as he watches.

“He’s not feverish,” Cara mutters. The kid is spread out on the couch and she sits on the edge beside him, the back of her hand held to his forehead. A trash bin sits beside her feet, luckily unused for some time, though it doesn’t offer comfort to Din.

“It’s been an hour,” Din says, voice barely concealing his nerves. “He’s thrown up three times. It’s not even food anymore. Are you  _ sure?” _

“Din,” Cara says. “Calm down.”

“I can  _ help--” _

“No, you can have a breakdown if you try to help,” Cara says. “You’re  _ both  _ shaking. He’s not sick, not… normal sick.” She lets out a sigh. “I’d put my chips on the time travel. He has barely eaten, right? Could be side effects.”

Din takes a deep, deep breath. That makes sense. The kid… he’d been in bad shape when he first woke up. He didn’t know what the hell time travel could do to you. Time travel wasn’t supposed to  _ exist. _

“Are you ready to deal with this when he wakes up?” Cara asks.

He shakes his head. “I don’t… I don’t think so. Not anymore. He’s going to have questions, and… I don’t know how to answer them. I don’t know if I can, if I can even remember, or…”

“You told him,” Cara says.

Din looks up. “You said I should.”

“Yes. But…” Cara makes a wince. “I wouldn’t have told you to do it while he was already upset and then make him throw up out of shock.”

“I didn’t plan it like that,” Din says. “It just… happened. It was in the moment.”

“Like most things.” Cara leans back. “It’s been awhile. I think he’s pulling together. As much as is possible, right now.”

Din lets out a breath and shifts. He’s relieved. “You’re sure about not needing a medic.”

“What do you want to tell them?” Cara looks over. “‘This kid might be from the past and underwent time travel with all its possible effects, could you check for a fever’?”

“I wouldn’t exactly spill the whole story, no,” Din says.

Cara lets out a sigh, then shakes her head. “I don’t think he needs a medic,” she says. “Not yet. Vomiting and fatigue are the only symptoms. One of which seems to be stopping.”

“He’s…” Din frowns. “I’m just… uncertain.”

“You know as much as I do,” Cara says, “which adds up to nothing. We’re both making guesses. And we’re on our own about this, unless we want to drag someone else into this or the universe decides to put him back where he came from.”

“No,” Din mutters. “No one else. Not if we can help it.”

The boy shifts. He lets out a distressed mumble, but then quiets again. His red shirt was removed, tossed into the ‘fresher. Cara turns away. “He needs a shower and those new clothes,” she says.

“Yeah.”

He’s staring down at Kuiil, who twitches but doesn’t wake. Cara watches him, then gets up and sits beside him. “You’re going to be okay,” she says. “You’re going to have to talk to him. Explain what you can, answer what you can. He had to know eventually.”

“It feels like I messed this up,” he breathes.

“I think if you were doing this right, you’d still think you were messing up,” Cara says. “There’s no precedent to follow. No right or wrong. Just trying to take care of a child who’s experiencing a special kind of hell.”

Din swallows. “I should know how to help him,” he says. “I went through it. I know the pain and the anger and how -- how hard it was to turn that into something good. Something productive. To accept that new life. But…”

“Din, you need a nap as much as he does,” Cara says. “You’re a detached kind of guy, I’ve only known you like that. But this is your past coming back like it isn’t done with you. If this were me? The amount of emotional punches --  _ Maker.” _

Din nods slowly. “It sort of feels like that,” he says. “I just… am I supposed to  _ raise  _ myself now? I don’t know how to send him back. I know what he’s going through, but I don’t…”

“You’re going to have to figure it out,” Cara says. “I’m going to help you as best as I can, but this is  _ your  _ past. It’s going to have to be your decision. Your best guess.”

He shakes his head. “I know. I know…”

The kid stirs again, this time turning onto his side. He lets out a whimper, his breath shaky. Then he settles. Din watches, his mouth dry.

“Get some sleep,” Cara says. “I have some work to do for Karga on the datapad, anyway. We’ve got some newer hunters demanding your kind of payment for half the efficiency. As if they earned that much.”

Din manages to smile beneath the helmet. “Hunters are like that,” he says. “Be glad you didn’t meet Toro Calican. Thought he was a real future star.”

“Seems you saved me from that irritation.” Cara smiles. “Go to sleep, Din. I’ll get you when he wakes up.”

Din pauses a moment, thinking on that. Sleep sounds… refreshing. He begins to get up, cradling Kuiil against his chest. “As soon as he wakes up,” he says.

Cara gets up, too, and nods. “As soon as he’s up. I promise.”

Din nods. Then he walks to the bedroom, dragging his feet, an overwhelming sense of confusion building up in his chest. The emotions he’s feeling are… too much. He’s never been good at emotions before, but now it feels even more hopeless. He walks into the room, lays the kid down. He sits on the bed and starts to take his pauldrons off. He was taught to mute his emotions in the heat of battle, to focus on his objective. Complete the mission, maintain your honor, provide for your clan.

His life used to be so clear cut. He had confidence in his abilities. In his strength and tactics and principles. He always had the objective in front of him.

Only he has no clear objective here, and he doesn’t know how to focus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mando'a:  
> Dar'manda - the state of not being Mandalorian. No heritage, no soul, a dreaded thing for traditional Mandalorians.  
> Yaimpar - return  
> Ad'ika - little one/son/daughter  
> Yaim - home
> 
> The [discord](https://discord.gg/UwZuG6N)  
> Follow me on [tumblr](https://coffee-quill.tumblr.com/)


	3. What Came After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dam breaks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Din deals with the aftermath.
> 
> The [discord](https://discord.gg/UwZuG6N)  
> Follow me on [tumblr](https://coffee-quill.tumblr.com/)

When Din wakes, the kid isn’t up yet and Cara is still working at the table, so he steps into the ‘fresher. Stripping off his armor and clothing to bathe is a long and aggravating process, even more so in Cara’s small ‘fresher. But Kuiil has wandered to find his toys and not having a child underfoot helps. Cara’s Enforcer status gets her the pleasure of a water shower, and while Din stands under it, his layers spin in the laundry.

But once he’s out, he and his clothes are clean, and he feels better for it. He’s able to shave the shadowy scruff off his jaw and cut his hair to neaten it. He doesn’t care much for his hair aside from keeping it comfortable in the helmet, but there’s some satisfaction in making the cuts even. He’s getting his layers back on and locking the beskar in place when a small hand pats against the door, a coo from the other side.

_ “Ke’pare!”  _ he calls. “Hold on.”

The patting only gets more persistent with a whine and Din sighs. He grabs his helmet and shoves it on, because the door lock has never stopped his kid, and as predicted the door flies open and Kuiil coos at him.

Din just continues putting his armor on.

When he steps out of the ‘fresher with the kid in his arm, he walks to the living room and stops. The kid is up and changed into the new clothes, the red robes discarded to the side, and Cara is showing him how to fold the sleeves beneath the bracers as they go on. As Din walks in, they both stop and look up, and the kid’s gaze immediately drops to the bracers.

“There,” Cara says. “Got that?”

The kid nods, turning his wrists to look the bracers over. They're plain brown leather with support, nothing in comparison to beskar, but they’re something. The kid sinks down onto the sofa and lays back, hugging himself, while Cara looks to Din. She gives him a shrug, then gets up and steps past him.

Leaves them alone.

Kuiil coos.

Din takes a deep breath, steeling himself, then walks over. He doesn’t look at the kid but feels his eyes, and he sits on the floor with Kuiil in his lap. He reaches for a toy, a stuffed wampa, and hands it to him. Kuiil smiles and grabs it in a hug.

Then he reaches up and takes off the helmet, setting it aside.

For a moment, they’re in complete silence. Even Kuiil is quiet, his demeanor deflating in response to the tension, and he squeezes his wampa before crawling out of Din’s lap and sitting beside his knee. Din takes hold of the toy and pulls, but Kuiil giggles and holds on. Din pulls more and drags the kid forward, earning a shrieking laugh. After a few moments, he lets go and Din tosses it. The kid catches it in the air, then tosses it back up.

They go back and forth for several minutes. Eventually, Kuiil falls into his lap and closes his eyes, smiling. Din rubs his back gently, smiling himself. He just waits for the kid to speak first, to decide that they’re talking at all.

It seems like he won’t, until he finally does.

“You said you can’t show your face.”

Din looks up, then back at Kuiil. “I can see my own face,” he says.

Another lapse of silence. He knows the kid is digesting that. He knows this is going to take a long, long time to sink in in any meaningful way.

“I’m going to look like you,” the kid says.

“Yes,” Din says. “... I didn’t remember what I looked like. You’re just as much of a shock.”

The kid shifts, swallowing. “... I’m supposed to be a Mandalorian?”

“Yes.”

“What… what happens?”

Din looks up and their eyes meet. He takes a breath. “What’s the last thing you remember?” he asks. “Before you woke up in this time.”

The kid frowns, fiddling with the hem of his shirt. A nervous habit that the Mandalorians had broken by shoving a blaster in his hands. “I was… in the cellar,” he says. His voice is so soft that Din can barely hear him. “There was…” he trails off and the tears form. He takes a long, shaky breath and pulls at his shirt, breath quickening. “In the— the cellar, and… and… there was an explo —explosion…”

“And a droid?”

The kid stares at him, a tear falling, as he nods.

Din pauses. “I already… told you some of what happens,” he says. “I don’t know that I should get further into the details. You’re upset. And you should be. But I don’t want to tell you everything and freak you out more.”

The kid shakes his head and swallows. “I want to know,” he says.

Din pauses, in thought. After a few moments, he looks up. “I’ll… tell you,” he says. “You stop me if it’s too much.”

The kid nods.

Din looks down. Kuiil is curled up in his lap, breathing soft and deep in his sleep. “Okay,” he says, and he takes a breath. He tries to think of how to explain it. How to compact his greatest trauma and recovery into something an eight-year-old can handle. How to explain without sugarcoating or playing it down. Kuiil’s ear twitches.

“The Mandalorians save you,” he says. “They’re going to save you. They’re going to take you in, protect you. They’ll try to look for your family, but there… isn’t anyone else. There’s no one to find. So they’ll take you in like you were one of their own. A clan, a family, is going to take care of you as if you’d been born to them.”

The kid stares down at his hands, his breath still trembling.

Din watches him. “And you’re going to hate them for it.”

The kid stops and looks up. “Wh… What?”

“You’ll hate them for…” He lets out a breath. “For acting like everything is okay. For treating you so well, as if you really were their son. You’ll hate that they’re kind, that they’re patient, that you can scream and throw things and they won’t think less of you for it. You’ll hate that… that they’re there for you, and that they  _ do  _ understand.” He watches the baby, how he breathes slow but steady in his sleep. “You’ll hate it.”

The kid swallows and wipes at his eyes. “I-If they’re nice, then why…”

“It’d be easier.” Din strokes the baby’s back. “If they were… cruel or mean. If they didn’t understand at all, if they were mad at you for being upset, if they were monsters. Then that rage, that anger and hatred and… whatever you want to call it. It would feel right. Like you deserve to feel that way.”

They lapse into silence.

“... It gets better,” Din says. “You won’t wake up one day and feel better. But you’ll start to realize that… they’re not going anywhere. That they  _ do  _ care about you, you’re their foundling and they care. The man who pulled you out of that fight will see you as his son and you’ll see him as your father.”

“I have a father,” his self whispers, voice near breaking with tears. “I-I have…”

“You do,” Din says. “You… did. And that… it doesn’t happen… fast.” The words don’t want to come, and he huffs. “It’s your decision. To think of him that way. To think of the clan as your family. But they think of you that way from the start. It’s just… realizing that you want that family. That you don’t want to shut down and stay that way.”

The kid is quiet. Kuiil stirs, but relaxes again under Din’s touch. They linger into silence again, and he can see the kid trying to hold himself together. He’s trembling. Din carefully gathers Kuiil into his arms and gets up, walking to the sofa. He sits there, a comfortable distance from the boy but still closer than from the floor.

“I’d take you home if I could,” he says. “But I don’t… time travel shouldn’t be possible. I don’t know how to send you back.”

The kid stares down at his hands. “C-Can…” He has to stop and breathe, his voice threatening to break, and he takes shuddering breaths in before swallowing. “Can we still… g-go… to h… home? Now?”

Din frowns and shakes his head. “I’ve looked,” he says. “It’s destroyed. Rubble. No one has rebuilt it.”

“They’re…”

Din watches him. His chest is expanding and contracting wildly with each breath. He stares at the floor, opening and closing his fists, trying to calm his breathing until he almost has a rhythm.

Then he turns and shoves himself into Din’s arms, nearly tackling him to the sofa.

“Careful,” Din says quickly, pulling one arm back to be sure he doesn’t crush Kuiil. But the kid just sags against him, ragdolling as he’s half on Din’s front and half in his lap. Kuiil lets out a mewl and blinks his eyes open. Din lets out a breath and eases him onto the sofa. He hesitates a moment, then shifts and wraps both arms around the kid.

The dam breaks.

The kid buries his face in Din’s cape and sobs, his howls muffled by the fabric, and Din can feel how badly he shakes. He holds him tight against his front, one hand splayed out on his back, and his own chest is aching. He sucks in a breath and closes his eyes, feeling the emotions pouring out from the kid, feels the same emotions that he’d shoved down and locked away thirty years ago.

There’s a soft coo from beside him. Kuiil puts his hands against Din’s hip, then climbs up onto his thigh, claws scratching against his cuiss. He squirms into the space between Din’s waist and the kid’s hip, then coos again and reaches his hands up. He presses them against the kid, then closes his eyes, and Din is about to reach out and stop him.

_ There’s nothing to heal,  _ ad’ika, he wants to say.  _ You can’t-- _

The boy slumps in his arms, relaxing in Din’s arms. He isn’t unconscious, sniffling and pressing closer into Din. But there is a moment where the hysterics fade away and the child almost seems to calm.

At his hip, Kuiil begins to cry.

Din looks down. Kuiil trembles now, face twisted up with tears before he shoves his face into Din’s side. Din drops a hand to stroke his head, drawing him close.  _ “Me’bana?”  _ he whispers. But Kuiil can’t answer, instead the one in hysterics while his past self has calmed.

“... You shouldn’t have done that,” he says. He’s covered in two miserable children. But he just holds them both close.

Cara comes across them like that -- he’s drowning in two children who have cried themselves to sleep, trapped beneath them and nearly dozing off himself despite the nap he’s already taken. But Cara’s approaching footsteps snap him out of it and he ducks his head slightly. The boy’s in a good position to cover Din, as long as Cara doesn’t come too far in.

“No helmet,” he calls.

Cara’s footsteps stop, then redirect into the kitchen. “Not looking,” she says, and he leans out to see over the kid’s shoulder. She’s starting up the coffee machine. “How’d it go?”

“... Alright,” Din says. He tries to keep his voice low, but he also accepts that he’ll probably wake either child. “Seemed like he hated me at first, then passed out on top of me.” Cara makes an amused sound. “... Kuiil did something.”

“Something?”

“He’s here, too, sleeping,” Din says. “He… I think he calmed the kid down. But then he got just upset and cried himself to sleep.”

Cara makes an inquisitive hum. “Maybe calmed him… saw what was upsetting him?”

“Hope not,” Din mutters.

The kid starts to shift. He makes a mumble, then lifts his head. He blinks up at Din with tired eyes, then stretches out before settling again.

“What time is it?” Din says.

“Nearly dinner,” Cara says. “You slept a while and then stayed there for some time.” She takes her mug of coffee and drinks, then sits at the table with her back to him. “... I have to go tonight.”

Din frowns. He leans around the kid and notices Cara’s satchel thrown over the chair. “Where?”

“Sontan,” she says, and takes a sip of her coffee. “Two hunters are fighting over a bounty. One had the fob originally, but he was gone over a month with no contact. Karga gave it to someone else. Now they’re arguing and Karga wants me to sort it.”

“Hm,” Din says. “Sounds like a job for the Enforcer.”

Cara lets out an amused breath. “Yeah. Delightful. I’m going soon. You three are more than welcome to stay, but I don’t know how long I’ll be.”

“It’s fine,” Din says, and he starts to sit up a little. Kuiil gives a sleepy coo, and the boy straightens up, rubbing at his eyes. “I don’t want to take up your things. We can leave.”

“Where to?”

Din pauses. “We’ll figure that out,” he says. “I can’t… take a job with both of them. Kid, I need you to move.”

The kid yawns but crawls back and off Din. He sets Kuiil on the sofa, then gets up and grabs his helmet, sliding it on.

Cara’s preparation to leave is swift—a single satchel that holds some rations and ammo. Kuiil insists on a drawn-out goodbye, full of hugs, until Din sighs and grabs him up. Cara just laughs, then looks at both Din and the kid. “Take care of yourself,” she says. “... I think that covers both of you.”

The kid smiles, holding onto Din’s hand. “Grab your clothes,” Din tells him, “we’re going soon, too.” The kid nods and disappears into the guest room. Then he looks at Cara, who crosses his arms.

“We could give you a ride,”

“I’m fine.” Then she sighs. “Really, Din. The amount of stress this is—if you need help, ask.”

“I think I’m okay,” he says. “But I will. Thank you.”

Cara lets her arms fall to her side. “Alright, then,” she says. “Til our paths cross?”

“Until our paths cross,” he says, nodding.

She smiles at him, then gives Kuiil a wave, who returns it. Then she turns and leaves, disappearing through the door, and it shuts behind her.

Din swallows and puts Kuiil down.

For a moment, Kuiil sits at his feet and pouts, but then pushes himself up and starts wandering towards the sitting room. The kid steps out of the room, his clothes bundled in his arms. Din nods. “Good.”

“Could we…” the kid pauses. “Could we go… see home?”

Din pauses. “You… want to go see it?”

The kid nods, swallowing.

“The last time I went was years ago, and it’s just pillaged and abandoned. I don’t think it’s something you’d want to see.”

“I  _ want  _ to.”

Din frowns. The kid stares up at him with an expression that’s unsure of himself but sure in what he’s asking for. He looks him up and down, then lets out a sigh. “Yeah,” he says. “Sure. We can… we can look.”

The kid smiles a little and nods. He doesn’t remember a desire to see his home city again, but it had been more… definite, then. He’d known there was no going back. He’d been lumped with other children, his finder too busy to entertain him until the camp packed and moved on.

_ But you went back.  _ He had. After the Purge. When his clan was killed or scattered across the galaxy, and he’d been alone. It was a year of drifting before he found his father, and he’d gone back to the ruins on a planet he didn’t recognize.

During a time when he’d questioned what being a Mandalorian meant.

He shakes those thoughts from his mind and instead walks to the living room.  _ “Ad’ika,”  _ he calls. “We’re go—hey. No. Put it down.”

Kuiil stands in the middle of the sitting room, holding a stuffed bantha in his arms and looking at Din with a pleading gaze. He coos sadly and his ears droop, squeezing the toy.

“No,” Din says. “The toys stay here so you have them for next time. You agreed to that.”

Kuiil makes another sad coo and sits down.

_ “No.  _ Come on. You have things to play with on the ship.” Din walks over and picks the baby up. Kuiil makes high-pitched whines and instead thrusts the toy out towards the boy with a loud trill and a blown raspberry. He looks up at Din.

They stare at each other, then Din sighs. “You can give it to him,” he says.

Kuiil coos and the boy smiles, walking over. He adjusts his clothes and takes the bantha with one hand. “Thank you,” he says softly, and Kuiil giggles. He looks up at Din, smiling.

“Yeah, yeah, I see your plot,” he mutters. “Let’s go.”

Kuiil just sits back in Din’s arms, satisfied that his toy will follow him home.

When they walk back onto the Razor Crest, the kid looks more comfortable than when he walked off, and though he still stands about with awkwardness, he isn’t afraid of Din or shying away. The kid coos at being home and wanders to the drawer where further toys are kept.

_ One track mind,  _ Din thinks.

He closes up the door, then walks to the storage cabinet where their food is stored. He takes out two meal packs; he and the kid usually split one. He sets it in the heater to cook, then pulls off his helmet and takes a breath.

“Where…” the kid’s voice squeaks before he clears his throat. “Are there other Mandalorians?”

“Yes,” Din says.

“Where are they?”

He pauses. “I travel alone.”

“Oh.”

He doesn’t know how to tell him.

The packs come out steaming and he grabs a small plate to put some on for the kid. He and Kuiil usually eat out of the containers anyway. The scent of food is enough for Kuiil to appear out of nowhere, and after giving the kid a plate and fork, Din sits on the floor with his back against the wall. The baby clambers into his lap, sniffing at the food.

They eat in silence. Kuiil practically inhales his portion and whines for more, but Din sets him on the floor with a firm  _ “No.”  _ Kuiil pouts and sits. Din scrapes out the rest, then gets up and dumps the containers into the waste. He glances at the kid. “Done?”

The kid nods and holds his plate up. Din takes it and sets it in the rinser before turning back. “I’ll put in coordinates for… home,” he says. “You can come sit in the cockpit if you want.”

The kid’s eyes seem to light up. “Really?”

“Sure.”

The kid smiles, then holds his arms up. Din grabs it and pulls him up to his feet; the kid is startled by the sudden force but laughs. “You’re… strong,” he says.

“Yes,” Din says, and he scoops up Kuiil. When he looks up, the kid is staring at the floor.

“...  _ I’m  _ going to be strong,” he says.

Din can’t fight a slight smile. “Yes,” he says. “You are.”

The kid is smiling, the baby is cooing, and Din climbs up into the cockpit with the most calm he’s felt in the last two days. As he sits in the cockpit and reaches for the controls, he can hear the kid step in and sit down off his left. Kuiil sits in Din’s lap and stares up at the night sky, gurgling happy noises.

He flips through the startup sequence and the engines roar to life. He lifts them up, slow and steady, rising straight up into the air until he knows he’s clear of any other ships. The landing gear folds in and locks, and he turns the ship up towards the stars.

Kuiil coos.

_ “Ka’ra,”  _ Din murmurs. “Stars.”

The baby smiles.

It isn’t long until they’re pulled free of Nevarro and it becomes a steadily decreasing dot behind them. Din eases his hands off the controls and pulls up the nav computer.

With slow, uncertain hands, he types in the name of a planet. It pops up and he selects the location.

_ TRICHAR. _

_ MANDALORE SYSTEM. _

He takes a breath to steady himself. “Hold on,” he says. He reaches for hyperdrive. Behind him, the kid shifts, and he pulls the level. The stars begin to streak into white lines until they’re shooting past. And they’re heading home.

He hasn’t thought of himself as a Tricharian in the last three decades. The title simply faded from his mind, no longer in association with himself, replaced by his Mandalorian upbringing until his birth culture was nothing but a shadow in the back of his thoughts. In the war camp, they’d been referred to as the Tricharian kids, some Mandalorians around calling them  _ Trichlings  _ to no one’s amusement.

Trichar wasn’t heavily populated. It’s a tiny planet with some cities but they were mostly factories. They had no beskar to mine, but they could produce and grow food. He remembers his family having ties to a factory’s operations, but those memories are few and without detail.

As they approach the planet, its surface grey with mixes of green, the boy stands up behind him and steps closer. “That’s what it looks like?” he whispers, and Din remembers that he’d never left before.

“Yes,” he says.

Kuiil is asleep in his lap but is awoken by their voices, beginning to paw at Din with familiar whines of hunger. “Just a second,  _ cyar’ika,”  _ he mutters as they approach Trichar. The  _ Razor Crest  _ flies into its atmosphere, and Din is pulling up the coordinates of the city. The nav computer lists it as a former city. Din flies towards it.

The land below is greyish and barren, trapped in the confines of winter, and the clouds are thick. The kid is staring out the transparisteel with big eyes, looking all around, and below Din can see the shapes of people. They wear grey and steel blue clothing, almost matching their landscape as they walk with animals. The nav computer shows their flight path, and the distance between them and the city rapidly decreases.

The buildings come into view from the horizon, and the boy sucks in a breath.

All Din can see is blast damage.

The Mandalorians arrived in the middle of the attack, and so much damage had already been done by then. Their own explosives had only contributed to the destruction, and the battle had waged on. Some of the smaller buildings are completely demolished. Others have gaping holes. Those not attached to city blocks have fallen or crumbled, blocking the street.

He can’t see them from above, but he knows there’s clothed skeletons.

The city had trees around, but plenty of the nearest ones were flattened, letting the ship land just beside some buildings. As the  _ Razor Crest  _ settles, he gets up, whining baby in his arms while the kid just stares out the front. Already, there’s tears in his eyes.

“Din,” he says. “We don’t have to do this.”

The kid shakes his head. “I want to.”

Din frowns, but nods, “Grab your coat,” and climbs down the ladder.

To satisfy Kuiil, he warms up some small pieces of cooked meat and lets him chew on those. He makes sure his blaster and vibroblade are in place and his jetpack is secure, just in case, though he doesn’t expect trouble. His helmet goes in place. The kid watches him do the check, pulling on his new jacket, looking nervous though he doesn’t say anything. Kuiil finishes off the meat and coos, happy, and Din opens the door.

The ramp extends, and he walks down, the two children following after. There’s a chill in the air and his beskar wiring warms up, his layers thick enough. There’s a gust of wind and a quiet whine from Kuiil. Din pulls his cape around to wrap him in it and he burrows in.

They begin walking towards the city just as snow begins to sprinkle around them. The kid pulls his hood up and the buildings shield most of the wind. The streets are full of rubble, a dead stillness to everything, but they walk down the street.

The kid is looking around with big eyes, breathless, and there’s tears lingering in his eyes as he sees the destruction. They climb over a pile of bricks, walking further in, silent as the snow begins to come down thicker. Large snowflakes land on his visor but melt away.

“It’s all gone,” the kid whispers.

“It’s been gone,” Din says. “The Mandalorians… they were here to protect. Not rebuild.”

“They took you,” the kid says. “They take  _ me.” _

“Mandalorians value children,” Din says. “People who join the culture are just as important as those born to it. There’s been so many wars in the past that they wouldn’t survive without it. They’ll take in orphans. Kids who have nowhere to go but can survive their training.” He pauses. “I was… you’re one of those.”

The kid takes a shaky breath. “Their training?”

“Mandalorians are warriors. As legendary as they seem.” Din adjusts Kuiil, who is entirely uninterested in what’s going on. “They will break you so they can remake you. There were days where I wanted to quit. Where I was too sore to move. But you become stronger for it.” He looks down at the kid. “I survived it. You’ll survive. It’s as mental as it is physical.”

The kid swallows. “How do you keep… keep going?”

Din pauses, thinking back to those days.  _ Hell week,  _ the first week of training for new foundlings, when he’d barely been able to walk. The times he’d cried into a pillow to not be heard, wanting nothing more than to quit and go home. The blisters and injuries and nightmares that went uncomforted.

“I wanted to be one of them,” he says. “I wanted to be useful. The clan was my family. I wanted them to be proud of me. They’d saved my life and wanted me to be a warrior. So I decided I’d be one.”

The kid nods.

They come to a T intersection and Din looks around, then turns left. The kid jogs to stay at his side. The snow doesn’t stick, but there’s another layer of quiet now, sound absorbed by the flakes. He makes another turn, climbs over rubble, hears the kid scrabble over the pile to follow. He walks down the center of the street, adjusting Kuiil in his arms.

They come down the street and there’s a street leading straight or to the right, but Din doesn’t turn. He walks forward to a set of metal doors built into the ground, surrounded by duracrete. The kid sucks in a breath. Din kneels down and opens one door, then the other.

Some things are missing from inside. Looted, probably. But it still looks familiar. The kid stands beside him and looks down into it, swallowing.

“He comes from there,” Din says, pointing to his left. “He shoots the droid apart. Pulls you out of the bunker. He was one of the first Mandalorians to land. He takes you out of the fight and to the camp.”

“He’s nice?” the kid whispers.

“He is,” Din says. “They all are. They seem mean, but they’re soldiers. They have orders to follow first. They won’t show you their faces and that… that was unnerving. But they want to help you.”

The kid nods, swallowing. He hugs himself, then looks around. He’s staring at all the buildings, eyes scanning the burnt and damaged duracrete, before he gazes down the road. Din closes the bunker doors, the metal making a  _ clang  _ that’s quickly muted by the flurries.

Then the kid takes off running.

“What—hey!” Din calls, but the kid is  _ sprinting  _ and disappears around the corner. Din huffs and gets up, wrapping his arms around Kuiil in his cape before he runs after him. The snow thickens as he follows the kid, and he has no idea what they’re running towards. The cellar is the only location he remembers in the city. Unless…

They travel several blocks before the kid slows to a stop, and he’s standing in front of a building, staring up at it, panting. Then he’s walking to the door and pushing on it, only it doesn’t move. He frowns.

“What is this?” Din asks.

The kid points up. “We lived here,” he says. “Near the top. The fifth floor.” Then he looks around, and points to the smaller building across the street—it looks like a storefront with display windows. “That’s the sweetshop. Jala’s dad owns it. He’d give us candy and let us play outside.”

Din looks at the curb in front of the former shop. It’s all covered in dust and gravel, but he can… he can imagine it.

“We played soldiers,” the kid says. “We had sticks. We pretended we were jedi.”

Din turns to stare at him. “You… know about jedi?”

“One came here, once,” the kid says, but his attention is already turned back to the door of the building. “He showed us his… I don’t know what it’s called. It was blue. He was nice. So we pretended to be jedi, too.”

That’s not in his memories at all. When the Armorer talked about  _ jetii… _ he thought it was completely new information. When had he met a jedi? “Did you know his name?”

“No,” the kid says. He pushes on the door again with more force. “It was fast.”

Din frowns, then walks over. “It’s blocked,” he says. “The roof caved in, you won’t push it in.”

“I want to  _ see  _ it,” the kid says. He looks up at Din with pleading eyes. “It’s home. Can you open it? Please?”

Din looks at him, then sighs and steps back. “Which floor?”

“Fifth.” The kid points up again. “That’s the first.”

Din scans up five floors and looks at windows covered by grey curtains. It’d be easier to fly up there from here. He pulls his blaster and aims up at the window, firing a shot into the top of the frame. There’s a crackling sound. He fires a few more shots, making a circle around the window, then reholsters. “Come here,” he says, and the kid looks shaken by the noise but he walks over. Din bends down to pick him up, careful about Kuiil between them, who only coos.

“Hold on.”

They shoot up off the ground and the kid gasps, tightening his hold, and Din manages to hover just in front of the window. He kicks the glass in, and it gives way, shattering on the floor inside. He presses his side against the building, rockets flaring to keep him there. “Go.”

The kid shakes, but he crawls through the hole and tumbles to the floor inside before popping up. Din grabs the ledge and pulls himself through, more cracking with the bulk of his jetpack before he gets to his feet. He looks around, then feels his stomach drop.

He recognizes it.

It’s exactly as they had left it.

It’s smaller than he remembers, but still spacious. There’s large and separate rooms, all finely decorated, with an old Holonet device, the latest appliances of the time, and everywhere was clean besides dust. His mother had hated messes. The kid looks around, then runs into another room, disappearing again. Din takes a deep breath and looks into the kitchen, the living room, remembers how his parents had entertained guests and how family always seemed to be coming and going.

Aunts and uncles who’d brought him toys. Men who’d come to talk with his father about things for work he didn’t understand. His mother forcing him into a bath after playing in the street for hours, grumbling about the clothes he’d gotten dirty but still with a smile on her face. He feels the memories creeping back. Memories of  _ before.  _

_ A life without love is a life unlived,  _ his mother would hum, running her fingers through his hair when he was still small. And their house has been full of love. Of laughter.

Until the droids came.

Feeling shaken, he follows the kid, and steps into his childhood bedroom. The kid is kneeling in front of the neat bed, digging through drawers stored beneath. He pulls out a small black device—a datapad. He presses the button, and the screen flashes white, but goes black again. He frowns, then presses it again, but the same effect happens. “It was charged,” he mumbles.

“We can charge it on the ship,” Din says. “What’s on it?”

“Pictures,” the kid says. “Mama took pictures.”

That makes Din swallow. “You have holograms?”

The kid nods. He shoves it into his jacket, holding it against his chest.

“Let’s go,” Din mutters. This entire trip makes him feel uneasy. He thought he’d been at peace with his past, but the introduction of new memories… it leaves him feeling like he’s been mixed about, a storm forming inside. “I don’t know how secure the building is.”

The kid frowns, but he looks around and walks to a container on the other side of the room. He opens it, then digs through toys that Din doesn’t recognize. He pulls out a stuffed wampa and holds it up with a smile. “Like the one at Cara’s,” he says, then dusts it off.

Din lets out an amused breath. “Okay. Let’s go.”

The kid nods and follows him back out into the rest of the apartment. Din takes his blaster and knocks out the rest of the transparisteel. The boy watches, holding both datapad and toy. “Are we going back?” he asks.

Din pauses, then looks over. “... I can show you where the camp was,” he says. “There’s… something I left there. If you want to leave, we can go.”

The kid is quiet for a moment. He squeezes the wampa. “No,” he says. “I want to see.”

Din nods, then busts out the last of the window before he throws a leg over, leaning out. He holds his arms out to the kid, who walks over, but hesitates. He climbs up onto the window, then leans out and looks down.

“Careful,” Din says. “Here.” He takes hold of the kid’s arm. The kid tries to shift closer. But he leans too far and his foot slips, and he lets out a gasp when his weight drops down.

Din catches him with an arm around his waist, pulling him back against his chest. “Dammit, kid,” he breathes, heart pounding at a near fall. “Don’t do that.”

“Di… didn’t mean to,” the kid stammers, arms locking around Din in the tightest hold he can manage.

“Hold on.”

He pushes through the window and lowers them back down to the ground without further incident. Their feet touch the ground and the kid lets out a shaky breath, hands trembling. One shoots out to grab Din’s hand.

The snow is starting to stick, and the visibility has dropped. Inside his cape, Kuiil shifts, making a grumble.

“On second thought,” Din says, “we’ll wait this out first.”

The kid pulls his hood down further and nods.

They walk through the sludge, and Din leads them back towards the ship. The  _ Razor Crest  _ awaits them as they come around the corner.

They walk up the ramp, out of the snow, and Din hits the button for the door before going to the panel for temperature controls. He brings up the heat, then unwraps the baby as air begins to blow in. Kuiil coos at him with sleepy eyes. Din sets him on the floor.

The kid opens his jacket and takes the datapad. “Can we charge it?”

“Yeah,” Din says, and he takes it. Lower to the floor beside a carbon freezer is one of several charging ports and he sets it to power up. “We’ll wait this storm out and then go see the campsite. But if you change your mind, we can go.”

The kid nods, then looks around. Din pulls his blaster to check the ammo, then walks to the weapons closet to change it out. He opens the doors with the controls on his vambrace, then crouches down to pull another clip. He hears the kid come behind them, then an intake of air. “That’s… a lot.”

“Yes,” Din says.

“You can use all of those?”

Din nods. “Weaponry is part of being a Mandalorian,” he says. “You’ll be taught that.”

The kid stares. “... Could you teach me?” he says. “To shoot?”

Din looks back at him, sliding the clip into place with a  _ click,  _ then nods. “Sure,” he says. “If you want, I can… I can show you.”

The kid smiles.

Din closes the locker as Kuiil wanders over, giving a curious coo, and he takes the boy’s attention away in favor of the stuffed wampa. They begin to play on the floor, both smiling, and Din walks to the ladder to sit in the cockpit. He goes up, a tight sensation in his chest, and sits in the pilot’s seat.

He pulls off his helmet and stares out the transparisteel at the falling snow. He lets out a shaky breath and runs a gloved hand over his face, leaning back.

They had loved him so, so much, and his life had been everything he could have wanted.

He doesn’t regret becoming a Mandalorian. He can’t imagine living that other life, with that comfort, that ease. He can’t imagine not having a whole  _ clan  _ to grow up with. Not knowing how to shoot. Not knowing battle strategies, how to fight, how to build charges, not knowing where his limits truly lie.

But his thoughts betray him, like they betrayed him on Sorgan, that sort of life calling to him,  _ alluring.  _ A life where he can be at peace, where he isn’t bound to violence by the Creed he swore, where he doesn’t walk as both hunter and prey.

Then he takes a shuddering breath.

_ No. _

There is no other life for him.

_ This is the Way. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mando'a:  
> Ke'pare - wait!  
> Ad'ika - little one/son/daughter  
> Me'bana - what's happening?/what happened?  
> Ka'ra - stars  
> Cyar'ika - darling/sweetheart  
> Jetii - jedi
> 
> The [discord](https://discord.gg/UwZuG6N)  
> Follow me on [tumblr](https://coffee-quill.tumblr.com/)


	4. Left Behind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “There’s nothing shameful about it. To grieve the way you need to. The Mandalorians… they understand.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Din and the kid try to wrangle the past.
> 
> The [discord](https://discord.gg/UwZuG6N)  
> Follow me on [tumblr](https://coffee-quill.tumblr.com/)

The snow doesn’t stop soon. It drags on, slowly building up around the ship.

It’s not a problem. When Din steps outside, it’s light and fluffy, and the  _ Razor Crest  _ has heaters that can melt them out. So he leaves most of the ship’s systems off to conserve fuel and lets warm air blow at the lowest setting. It’s still chilly, so Kuiil and the kid are each wrapped in a blanket.

Din doesn’t know how he ends up on the floor with them, but two hours into the snowstorm, the three are sitting in a circle in the cargo hold. Toys lie forgotten around them, Kuiil drinking from a warm bottle of milk while Din and the kid look at a datapad.

_ “Yaim,”  _ Din says. He types the word on the pad.  _ “Yaim  _ is home.”

_ “Yaim,”  _ the kid repeats. “Home.  _ Yaim.” _

“Right.  _ Buir.  _ That means parent. Mother and father.”

_ “Buir,”  _ the kid breathes.  _ “Boo-eer…  _ Mother  _ and  _ father?”

“Yes,” Din says. “Most terms in Mando’a don’t follow gender. The difference isn’t considered important. So  _ buir  _ is the word for both parents, like aunt and uncle are the same. That’s  _ ba’vodu.  _ Or brother and sister,  _ vod.  _ Plural is  _ buire.” _

_ “Buire,”  _ the kid says.

“Boo!” Kuiil shrieks before returning to his milk.

Both smile at the baby before Din types up another word. “Okay.  _ Aliit.  _ That’s a few different things. Family. Clan name, your identity. It generally refers to a group close to you.  _ Traat’aliit  _ can be squad, your team.”

_ “Aliit,”  _ the kid repeats, nodding, eyes scanning the word and its spelling.

“Okay.” Din clears the list and slides it over to him. “Try to rewrite and say them. Tell me what they mean.”

The kid stares at the pad for a moment, then taps on it.  _ “Aliit,”  _ he mumbles. He types it correctly. “Uh…  _ yaim.  _ That’s home. And…  _ bu… ir.  _ Mother or father.” The pronunciation is correct, but he stares at the pad. “Boo-eer,” he sounds out, then types  _ buer. _

“Almost,” Din says. “It’s an ‘i’, not an ‘e’.”

The kid nods and types back, replacing the letter.

“Good,” Din says. “There are some basic words like that. Those are more central to Mandalorian beliefs—your home, your family. Smaller foundlings learn more important words and those are shortened so they can pronounce it.  _ Gaa’taylir  _ means help, but they’ll shorten it to  _ gaat.” _

“And you know what they’re saying anyway?” the kid asks.

Din nods. “You get used to it,” he says. “I was the youngest in my clan for a while until another foundling was brought home. She was three and only able to say the shortened words. You get attuned to it.”

The kid nods.

Din pauses, then shifts. “I need you to promise me something.”

The kid looks over.

“If you… go back,” he says. “To your time. I don’t know how to do that or if you’re going to stay here. I’ll teach you all the Mando’a you want to know, but if you go back, you… can’t speak it to them. There’s no reason for someone like you to know Mando’a. Even if I’ve taught you to have an entire conversation -- if you get sent back with that knowledge, with any knowledge, you  _ have  _ to keep it to yourself.”

The boy swallows, then nods. “I won’t say any Mando’a,” he says.

“Or anything else that I’ve told you. You can’t try to change anything. I don’t know what would happen if you do.”

“I… I won’t.” Then he frowns. “What if I mess up? On accident?”

“You can’t help that,” Din says. “I just mean… consciously. Don’t do something different because you know what  _ I  _ did was bad.” He glances towards Kuiil, who’s just emptied the milk bottle and now coos at him. “I’ve done bad things. There are things I wish I had done differently. But considering how things have turned out… I wouldn’t go change them when they turned out for the better.”

The kid nods, and the fun feels as though it’s disappeared. Din shifts over and scoops up Kuiil, setting the bottle aside and placing him in his lap.

The boy watches. Then he looks up at Din. “Where are the other Mandalorians?” he asks. “Where’s your clan?”

Din freezes.

He has always had the helmet to hide his expression.

This, he doesn’t know how to explain.

Kuiil grabs his fingers to play with and Din lets the silence drag on as he tries to think of something that would work. Something that could somehow satisfy the curiosity of an eight-year-old without spurring him to mess things up in the past. He stares down at Kuiil, keeping his breath steady.

“...D-Din?”

The kid sounds as uncertain saying the name as Din feels. He looks up, then. “You can just call me Mando,” he says. “It’s what people default to.”

“Mando,” the kid repeats. He frowns and shifts on the floor. “... Is that a bad question?”

“No. No, it’s just…” Din frowns. “Look. Things… happen. Things you have no control over and no part in. It’s not something to worry about. I…” He sighs. “I don’t know how much to tell you. I don’t want you to go back to that time and worry over the future.”

The kid doesn’t respond. He just looks down. Din frowns. “... Think your datapad is done charging?”

The boy perks up and gets to his feet, walking over to the charging port. He takes it off, then turns it on and nods. He taps on the screen as he walks back over, sitting down with eyes fixed. After a moment, he puts it on the floor and lays down on his stomach, tapping again.

A hologram shoots into the air, and Din swallows.

It’s a still image of his mother, and the quality is good enough that he can see the folds of her dress. In her arms is an infant, swaddled and asleep.

“Mama put these on,” the kid mumbles. “That one’s her favorite.”

He taps through another picture. A baby held between two parents, staring at the lens with confusion. Him crawling towards his mother. Then, a video of him holding onto a chair, looking at his father with distress, who stands a few feet away with open arms.  _ “Come on, Din,”  _ his father calls, and the toddler whimpers before he takes one step and then another. He manages three before falling, and his father catches him, heaped with praise.

Kuiil stares at the holograms with big eyes, ears perked at the noises. He looks up at Din and trills.

“Yeah,” Din mutters. “That’s… me.”

He remembers getting this datapad. It was a birthday gift. But he hadn’t remembered it existed until the kid found it again.

The hologram switches.  _ “Din is better at walking,”  _ his mother’s voice says.  _ “Din!” _

A toddler wanders into the hologram, sucking on fingers. He’s wearing a too-big shirt, his hair is long and messy, in bad need of a cut. His walk is unsteady, but he doesn’t fall until he reaches his mother and giggles when he’s cheered.

More still images. He’s older, sitting with people he doesn’t recognize. Then there’s a jump in time and he’s almost as old as the kid beside him. An image of his mother cutting into a cake, then an image of another smiling child. A hologram of playing a game together in the street.

The boy taps to go to the next one, but it doesn’t change. He frowns. “I thought I took more,” he says, and he sits up.

“That was… enough,” Din says.

The kid looks at him. Kuiil, too, is staring up at him with a confused look. The emotions are warring inside of him, between sadness of what he lost and the refusal to feel that sadness.  _ What could have been  _ argues with  _ it shouldn’t matter.  _ He sees the faces he forgot, the laughter in his father’s face and the love in his mother’s, a young couple and their son.

They’d been ripped away from him. Out of his life.

“Are you—“ the kid starts.

“How are you feeling?” Din asks.

The kid frowns, but he adjusts himself. Kuiil coos. “I’m okay,” he says. “I’m… okay. It…”

Din waits.

Finally, the kid swallows and the tears begin again. “My chest hurts,” he breathes, and his voice trembles. “A lot. It just hurts and I… I feel  _ sad.  _ I don’t know if… if I’m sad  _ enough.  _ I don’t… I don’t  _ know.  _ It hurts. My heart hurts.” He takes shaky breaths, and the tears fall, and he wipes at his eyes.

Kuiil makes a sad coo, ears lowered.

“My heart hurts,” he whispers again. “M… Mama—I want Mama.”

“That feeling isn’t going to go away,” Din says, his voice quiet. “I know. I felt it. I know it feels like the world is ending.”

The kid stares at him, and he gives a painful swallow.

His  _ own  _ heart hurts.

“Come here.”

The kid gets up and nearly tackles Din again in a hug, but Din holds against it and grips him tight. A face buries in his cape again and Din puts his back to the wall, taking a deep breath.

“You’re supposed to feel like this,” he says. “This is grief.  _ Or’trikar.  _ You lost people you love. It hurts and this is… this is normal.”

The kid hides in his chest, shaking with the effort to keep his sobs back, and Din can hear his effort to temper his breathing. There’s a whimper from beside them and Kuiil is sitting, watching them with obvious sadness. Din looks at him, rubbing the boy’s back, and just turns back.

“I h-hate it,” the boy forces out.

“I know.” Din squeezes his shoulder. “It’s easier. When you accept it sooner. But you can’t accept without feeling it.” He takes a deep breath. “There’s nothing shameful about it. To grieve the way you need to. The Mandalorians… they understand.” He swallows, “They  _ won’t  _ think you’re weak for it. No one will.”

With the words, something lightens in his own chest.

The snow stops soon, but it’s turned to the next morning when Din opens the ship again. The sun is shining and almost half the snow is already melted, water dripping from the barren trees, turned to a cold sludge underfoot.

He wraps Kuiil up in a blanket and they set out from the ship. The kid holds Kuiil against his chest while Din picks him up, an arm and legs locked around Din for the jetpack ride. It’s much easier than walking the miles to the old camp, so Din launches them into the air.

Kuiil makes a squeak while the kid makes a nervous noise from his throat, holding on as tight as he can, and Din tightens his own arms too. The kid’s eyes are squeezed shut, face buried in Din’s shoulder against the wind, tense all over. But it isn’t terribly long. After a few minutes, he’s coming to a stop, and they land on his feet with complete control. “You’re okay,” he murmurs before setting the boy down. The kid slowly straightens up and looks around.

The camp isn’t much. Most of the tech and thrown up tents were packed up and transported out, but there’s still rocks set up for the fire pits and he can see blue banners that were tied to trees to signal the camp. There are still branches with scorch marks from bored soldiers who wanted target practice -- the same shots that had left Din shaking in the foundlings tent.

This had been the start of a new life.

Din walks to a tree with a ribbon on its branch, faded from blue and frayed at the edges, and puts his hand against the bark. He looks around, then up at the marked branches and walks forward. The kid follows behind him. He comes to another tree with a lower branch. He looks up to see a knot higher on the bark, then crouches down and begins to dig his hands through the snow.

“What are you doing?” the kid asks.

“There’s a space in the tree,” he mutters. “I put something there. Should still be there.”

The kid watches. Din’s hands stiffen in the cold but he shovels away the snow and sludge for a space where the tree’s base splits, a small hole there. He reaches in, his hands closing around a small object. He pulls it out, then looks down at it in his hands.

It’s a small necklace. It’s metal twisted in a circle with two lines through it. The red paint has chipped away, leaving just a subtle pink color, rusted and with a weatherworn string. “I left this here,” he mutters.

The kid steps over to look, Kuiil cooing in his arms. His hand flies to his collar and he shoves a hand down into his shirt, pulling out an identical necklace. It’s still a shiny red. A gift from his aunt, he remembers.

“Why?” he whispers.

“It was…” Din sighs. “We were leaving. I didn’t… I knew I was going with them because there was no family left to take care of me.” He runs a thumb over the metal. “But I thought I was coming back one day. I left it here. So one day I’d come find it again and I’d be home. Happy.”

The kid holds Kuiil tighter. The baby coos.

“I found it again, years ago. But I wasn’t home.”

“Why don’t you take it?” the kid says. He looks up at Din. “If you’re not home. If you’re not coming home.”

“...Can’t take it,” Din mutters. He lets it slip through his fingers and stands. “It’s still here. So I’m not home. Leaving it is like… a choice. I choose to leave it, so I choose to be a Mandalorian.”

“Why not both?”

“I can’t be both,” Din says.  _ “Cin vhetin.  _ A blank slate. Once you become a Mandalorian, nothing that came before matters. Only what you do after. I can’t have both, not without breaking my Creed in some way.”

The kid frowns. “But it’s just… here.”

“I wouldn’t do anything with it.”

Kuiil begins to whine in his arms and he holds him out to Din. Din takes Kuiil and cradles him, looking down at a child trying to burrow further into blankets. Din adjusts the blanket and holds him up to his shoulder, letting him press into the warmth of his arm. He quiets down, but he still makes a sad coo. A small hand presses against him through the fabrics.

_ Conflicted. Anchored. Stuck.  _ The sensation is his own, just amplified. The uncomfortable feeling intensifies. “Stop,” Din mutters, adjusting him again.

“What?” the kid says.

“Not you.” Din squeezes his eyes shut. “Let’s go. This was a bad idea.”

“But—“

“No. It’s cold. Let’s go.”

Dragging himself into the past—it was always a bad idea. There was a reason his past was forgotten when he became a foundling. Why he hadn’t gone back when the Mandalorians still lived on Mandalore. When he still had his clan and his home world had never been mentioned again, his parents never mentioned again, not since the day his  _ buir  _ adopted him and pledged to finish what they couldn’t.

His parents are dead. His city is in ruins. He wouldn’t be thinking about his past if not for the  _ existential crisis  _ with him. The absolute impossibility of his child self appearing out of nowhere like a reminder of what he’d lost and what he’d suffered.

It was thirty years ago. It shouldn’t bother him anymore.

He turns away and starts to walk, but Kuiil begins to squirm in his arms. He lets out a whine, and when Din doesn’t stop, it turns into a cry. “Shh,” Din soothes, but the baby fights out of the blankets and stares up at Din, letting out a high-pitched whine. “... What? What do you want?”

Kuiil just looks at him with big eyes, then begins to settle. He shivers in the wind, ears folding down, and he lays back into the blankets. Din just sighs and covers him again. “Kid, come on, let’s move.”

He glances back at the kid, who still stands at the tree, hands shoved into his pockets. He turns and begins walking over to Din, lips blue and hunched in. Din holds Kuiil out and the kid takes him, holding him to his chest with one arm. Din crouches down to pick him up, and then they’re in the air, flying back to the ship.

The tension in his shoulders won’t go away. The swirling storm of emotions keeps growing.

When Din closes the ship door behind them, he feels nothing but exhaustion. It’s not a physical sensation. Hell, he could go three rounds with Cara right now. But the sensation seeping into his bones is a different exhaustion and he  _ despises it. _

“Where are we going?” the kid asks.

“I don’t know,” Din mutters. “Not here.”

They go up into the cockpit and Din slides into the pilot’s seat, taking a deep breath. The kid sits in his seat, Kuiil in his lap, and Din turns on the systems to begin liftoff. The engines power on, he grips the controls, and they rise off the ground.

The planet’s surface melts away.

He isn’t sure of a new destination other than space right now, because the longer he looks at his home planet the more suffocated he feels. The grey surface is replaced by the stars and Kuiil coos. Once they’re free of the atmosphere and amongst the unending black, Din lets out a breath and pulls up the nav computer.

“We’ll go somewhere,” Din mutters. Somewhere they don’t need to spend credits. Somewhere not cold, where the kids can both have space. Kuiil can only tolerate the ship for so long -- the baby is calm now, but he’s learned that lesson. Every so often, they need to stop somewhere and really stretch their legs.

They need somewhere safe. Somewhere he doesn’t have to stress about their situation.

He’s searching for somewhere that fits the bill when there’s a giggle. He glances back and Kuiil is playing with the boy’s fingers before sticking one in his mouth. “Gross,” the kid says, smiling as he pulls it away. Kuiil trills and puts his hands against the boy’s chest instead, then reaches up. He paws at the kid’s neckline, fingers grasping the string of his necklace. He gives it a pull and turns to look at Din, trilling.

“That’s mine,” the kid says. Kuiil trills again, louder, but the kid pulls it from his grasp. “Don’t break it.”

Kuiil pouts. But he leans against the kid and instead reaches a hand outwards. His metal ball sits on the dashboard. It shakes, then begins to hover and float over to them. “How do you do that?” the kid mutters, but Kuiil just grabs it and holds it out to him. The kid smiles again and takes it. “Thanks.”

Din can’t help a smile. He looks down at the computer again, searching through locations.  _ Sorgan.  _ It pops up as a historical navigation input and he stops, staring at the name.

It’s been a year. It’s not as though he promised to go back. But it… feels odd to.

_ Safe. Isolated. Friendly. _

With a sigh, he inputs the coordinates and prepares for a jump to hyperspace. Behind him, the kids giggle, and Kuiil is tossing the ball up and down. “Hold on,” he mutters, and pulls the lever.

They’re sent shooting into the stars.

Din is rigid in his seat, the warmth beginning to seep into his layers while the little ones play together, and it takes time before he can relax. He glances back at the kids again, and the boy looks up at him before smiling a little, Kuiil whining again for his attention. He begins to type a message to Cara’s home system of their new destination.

Din turns back. “Tell me the word for family,” he says.

The boy is quiet for a moment.  _ “Alii… Aliit.” _

“Home.”

_ “Faim.” _

_ “Yaim.”  _ The boy mumbles an affirmative as Din pulls up the star charts. “Mother?”

“Burr.”

_ “Buir.” _

“Right.”

“And father?”

“That’s  _ buir,  _ too.”

“Good.” Din leans back. “...  _ Mando’ad.  _ A Mandalorian. A son or daughter of Mandalore.”

_ “Mando’ad,”  _ the kid mumbles. Kuiil coos, and his happy mood is nearly extending to the whole of the cockpit. Din can almost feel his satisfied energy. “Where are you—careful.”

There’s a soft  _ bump  _ and small pattering steps before a loud trill at his side. Din looks down and Kuiil is standing beside his chair, staring up at him with raised arms. He reaches down and lifts the kid into his lap, letting him plant down there and watch the lights of hyperspace. They reflect in his eyes as he coos and smiles.

Din looks down, then wraps one arm around him.

Sorgan takes hours to reach but there’s almost a homely familiarity to it. The sun is still rising as he sets a flight path for the village. The ship stores the coordinates of the nearby town but then it’s a day’s trip to the farm, so he opts for closer. Significantly closer.

From above, the ponds are a dead giveaway.

There are only a few people outside that he can see on approach. Not wanting to disturb the ponds, he guides the  _ Crest  _ to a small clearing just beside the village, only a thin line of trees separating the two areas. The trees shake with the winds of touchdown, but the ship settles and Din begins to power down the systems.

“Where are we?” the kid asks.

“Sorgan,” Din says. “I helped these people once. We can stay here.”

He stands up with Kuiil in his arms, who squeaks and points out the transparisteel at the green before them. Din climbs down the ladder and and heads for the door, hitting the button to open. The kid follows. The ramp lowers and he looks out at the green of Sorgan for the first time in what feels like forever.

“They’re nice?” the kid asks.

Din starts down the ramp with Kuiil in his arms, looking ahead. There are already people coming towards them -- kids, it seems, running between the ponds. Kuiil begins to squirm with excitement. “They’re very nice,” he says. “There are kids. Come on.”

The kid follows him and they make it through the trees, but not much farther.  _ “Mando!”  _ he hears, and he recognizes Winta’s voice. She’s older and taller, grinning when she runs straight into him at top speed. He takes a step back and smiles before dropping a hand to her back. Right behind her are several more children, all smiling.

“Mando!”

“You’re back!”

“Can we see the baby—”

“Who’s this?”

“We thought you were gone!”

“Calm down,” he says with amusement, and Kuiil shrieks to go play, so Din gives him to Winta who squeezes him in a hug. Kuiil trills with excitement. Din feels the kid take his hand, looking at the other kids with trepidation.

“Mando.”

Din looks up at Omera. She stands several yards away from the crowd of children, a smile on her face, and Din feels a flutter in his chest. Other villagers stand behind her, watching. The children turn and start to run back, thrilled to have their playmate returned, and the boy stays glued to his side. He walks forward to Omera. Her arms are crossed with a smile, then she looks down at the kid.

“Who’s this?” she asks.

The kid looks up at Din, uncertain. Din nods.

“I’m Din,” he says, voice soft and shy.

“Hello, Din,” she says. The kid smiles.

“I don’t mean to… just drop in,” he says. He pauses. “I need to talk to you. Alone.”

Omera frowns, a concerned expression on her face, but she nods. “Of course,” she says. “If you need to stay, we can fix up the barn—”

“We can stay on the ship,” Din says. “But thank you.” He glances down to the kid. “Can we go somewhere private?”

Omera nods. “Everyone will want you to say hello, first,” she says. “But of course.”

She turns and begins walking back to the village where the other farmers stand. They’re all smiles, looking delighted that Din has come back, and are curious about the kid though they don’t push. Breakfast is already being cooked, creating delicious smells that waft through the air, and Din is quiet but responsive.

When the kid is given a plate of food and eats, he begins to relax.

The Sorgan village is as peaceful as he remembers. After breakfast and the initial excitement of Din’s return, the adults migrate to the ponds for the day’s work and Omera keeps a plate for Din. “Thank you,” he mutters, and she just smiles.

The kid sits beside him, and Din sees that he’s watching the other kids, forlorn expression on his face. “You can play,” he says.

The kid shakes his head.

“They’ll let you.”

“I’m fine,” the kid mumbles.

Din glances at Omera, who nods and looks towards the children. “Winta!” she calls, and Winta’s head pops up. Din only gets a glimpse of Kuiil before he’s gone again, hidden behind another child. Winta almost bounces over to them, and stops when Omera gives a nod towards the boy.

Winta just smiles and steps up to the kid.

“Do you want to play with us?” she asks. “We’re going to play tag.”

The kid stares at her, then looks to Din before he stands up. “Okay,” he says softly. Din nods.

“I’m Winta.”

“I’m Din.”

They both smile.

Din watches them both walk to the other children, and for a moment he and Omera only observe as the two sit down. They’re all smiles, and Kuiil is quick to climb into the boy’s lap.

“Were you going to talk about him?”

Din glances at Omera, then looks around. They’re alone, and the children are far away enough that they’re unlikely to be heard. He shifts in his seat and looks at her.

“I have to tell you something,” he says.

“I’m listening,” Omera says, taking the seat beside him.

“You’re not going to believe me.”

“Try it.”

He takes another breath. “He’s not… just a kid,” he says. “He’s… me. From the past. From thirty years ago, when I became an orphan.”

Omera just looks at him for a moment. Then, her expression changes to confusion and concern. “He’s… you?”

Din nods. “We were in a starport, and he just… appeared. Wearing the clothes I’d worn. Able to describe what had happened. I know it sounds like I’m out of my mind, but I’ve already done what I can to check. I know it’s real. That kid  _ is  _ me, before I became a Mandalorian. When I was eight years old.”

Omera leans back. “... Time travel?”

“Yes. I went to Cara for help, and she thinks it’s real. I took the kid back to my home planet, the city I lived in, and… he knows too much for it to be fake.” He takes a deep, shaky breath. “This kid shows up out of  _ nowhere  _ and now I’m questioning things. Whether… whether becoming a Mandalorian was—was really the best thing for me. I told myself that. That  _ was no  _ better life.”

Omera stares at him, then reaches out and takes his hand. “Mando,” she says. “I…”

“Din.” He swallows. “He… He said it. You might as well know.”

“... Din.” She squeezes his hand. “I believe you. It does… it sounds impossible. But you sound… you’re not a liar.” She glances towards the kids. “You were that old? When you put the helmet on?”

Din shakes his head, trying to calm himself. “Not… for a few more years,” he says. “I got it young, to get… to get used to it. But my Creed meant I couldn’t show my face. I was of age when I swore it.”

She takes his hand into both of hers, squeezing, and there’s a warmth and gentleness that sends soothing waves through him. He closes his eyes, just trying to breathe.

“You’re doubting?” she whispers.

“In a sense. It’s bringing back… there’s so many memories now. Things I hadn’t remembered. My parents, my family, who they had been. I thought I… had accepted it.” He looks at their hands. “What had happened. That my parents were gone and there was no changing it, no matter what I wanted. I’ve always had a debt to the Mandalorians. They could’ve left me to die. They didn’t, and I… I owe them. A lifetime, and I still owe.”

“I don’t know how you can live like that.” Her voice is soft, more understanding than he’d even hoped for. “Your Creed is—is one thing, but… who says you owe anything?”

Din shakes his head. “It’s a privilege to swear the Creed. It’s… It was a privilege to be a foundling at all. Mandalorians won’t take a child who can’t handle the lifestyle. They wouldn’t waste the resources. They saw something in me.” He swallows. “They saved me. They decided I was worth the effort. That’s what I owe. My entire life.”

Omera nods. “So you dedicate your life to them,” she whispers.

“To my covert,” he says. He glances towards Kuiil. “Before my kid. Before everything changed, it was my life and my purpose. To provide for who I had left. All my money, all my time, I worked until I couldn’t stand. I had people to take care of, and it didn’t… fulfill my debt. Every fight I won, I won because of the Mandalorians’ training. I owed them more every time. Providing was a way to… keep it a little easier to manage.”

She looks at him with  _ sadness.  _ Her hands squeeze his and a hand drifts to his bicep, rubbing up and down. It’s—it’s comforting. He almost freezes—being grabbed is never good. But he relaxes and the motions become soothing. He takes a deep breath and he’s falling apart a little more slowly.

“I sold a child to the Empire,” he whispers, the words out before he can stop them. “For beskar. I took him back, but that sin…”

“Do you think this is why he’s here?”

Din looks up.

“You feel this… this  _ debt.  _ A debt you seem to think is the most important thing, but you can’t repay it.” Omera frowns. “Is there  _ anything  _ you could do to… to feel like you’ve paid?”

Din looks at her for a moment, then looks towards the kids. His eyes track Kuiil, who’s giggling as he floats krill for the children. “Dying to protect a foundling,” he whispers.

Omera looks towards the children, then her hands squeeze his arm. “That’s… a noble thing, but that… death can’t be the only way.”

Din doesn’t respond.

“Din.”

Hearing his voice from her lips is enough for him to tear his gaze away, back to her. She squeezes his hand again. “Do you think he could be here because you’re this unhappy with your past?” she asks.

“I’m… happy,” he says. “I was saved. I’m happy about that.”

Omera shakes her head. “That helmet makes you a good fighter, but that doesn’t make you a good liar.”

Din doesn’t move.

“I think you’re happy to be a Mandalorian. I might not understand it, but… you seem happy with the lifestyle you choose. I think you’re not happy with the process that came with it.”

Din lets out a breath. “You… you might be right. I don’t know.” He swallows. “I wasn’t taught this.”

“What were you taught?”

“Weapons. Strategy. How to fight, how to complete missions. How to… detach.” He swallows. “I had people who loved me, but… we didn’t talk about these things. Once you adjust, the past doesn’t matter.”

“You weren’t taught that acceptance,” Omera says.

Din looks up at her. “How do I learn that?”

Omera just smiles sadly at him, then looks towards the children. “I think that’s between you and him,” she says.

Din feels his heart beating in his chest. Omera gives his hand another squeeze, then pulls away, standing up. “I need to help with the ponds,” she says. “If you need anything, just let us know. I’m sure the little ones will love it if you have stories for them.”

“Maybe,” Din says.

She glances towards the kids again, smiling. “Did you ever give him a name, your boy?”

Din follows her gaze. The kids are all getting up, the baby swept into Winta’s arms as they all scatter for a game of tag. “Kuiil,” he says. “I named him Kuiil.”

Omera smiles, and he’s left alone with his thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mando'a: (what wasn't completely translated in text)  
> Or'trikar - grief  
> Cin Vhetin - blank slate. What was done before becoming a Mandalorian doesn't matter, only what you do after.
> 
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	5. Storm Clouds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Winta nods, then looks through the game boards, lips pursed in thought. “We can play this!” she says, and pulls out a folded board to spread on the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The [discord](https://discord.gg/UwZuG6N)  
> Follow me on [tumblr](https://coffee-quill.tumblr.com/)

Two days pass since their arrival on Sorgan.

The kid takes a whole day to really immerse with the other children, but their love of Kuiil and Kuiil’s preference for either him or Winta seems to make the transition easier. It takes longer before the baby’s name becomes normal use, with varied pronunciations. But when Din wakes with the sun already in the sky, the kids have already fled the ship, off to play.

It’s a relief. It was a relief the first time he came, to have Kuiil distracted, and it’s still a relief now to have to relax, to take his time waking up without the cry of a baby for food.

Having a strong Mandalorian around is a bonus for the villagers and one that they take advantage of. Not that he minds—he’d rather keep himself busy. Some of the huts have worn out and the wood has gone bad so he helps with taking down trees to both rebuild and keep firewood. It’s a physical task, but he’s glad for the sweat and aches that come after, pulling sleds full of wood back to the village when the floating transport is already full.

The days pass. Omera gives him concerned looks, but doesn’t try to speak with him on the topic of their conversation and he’s relieved. Her words are still going through his head and he knows he has to work through this, somehow, on his own. This is a problem she can’t solve for him—as wonderful as that would be.

Instead, she shows warmth and kindness to the kid. She gives him a smile when food is distributed, lets him and Kuiil spend time with Winta in their hut, and shows him how they catch krill when he asks. Din watches from a distance, and sometimes she looks up to see him. Sometimes she doesn’t. Every time, it stirs feelings in his stomach.

Four days into their stay, the dark clouds come.

He’s pulling more wood in when the yells start. He looks up and around, tensing, but there’s no immediate threat that he can see. People are climbing out of the ponds, helping each other out, and his first thought is to look for the kids. They’re in the center of the village, and they all seem to scatter.

He looks up at the sky. A massive dark cloud blots out half the sky, easing in darkness, and it moves  _ fast  _ with nothing but black behind it. He’d looked up a few minutes ago. It hadn’t been there, then.

“Bring the wood in!” someone calls out to them. “Storm!”

Din huffs and pulls harder on the rope tied to a sled of wood, dragging it behind him between the ponds, and damn him for loading this much on. His arms strain and he has to dig into the dirt to keep the sled moving, but he gets it into the village. Rain drops begin to fall. Another farmer drags a sled in behind him, the last of the tree taken down.

Two people come running, pulling tarps with them. “The wet season is coming in,” someone mutters. “Almost forgot about it.”

Din sets off to find his charges.

Farmers are rushing to either bring things inside or get them covered. Most get piled into the barn or placed under wooden awnings. The older kids are helping move barrels, but there’s no sign of the usual crowd.

“Mando!”

Din turns and sees Winta and the kid standing in the doorway of a hut, Kuiil held in the kid’s arms. The rain takes a harsher turn and he jogs over. They back away and he steps under the roof, and seconds later, it begins to downpour. The village clears out quickly, everyone disappearing into the huts.

Kuiil squeals for him and Din turns.

They’re in Omera and Winta’s hut—the two smile at him, Omera covering up the windows with painted boards in motions that seem quite practiced. The rain lashes against the roof with intensity. He takes Kuiil from Winta, who smiles up at him.

“They said it's the wet season,” Din says.

Omera nods. “You and Cara had left before it came last year,” she says. “Luckily, the harvest is gathered before the storms get too bad for work.”

Thunder  _ booms,  _ an explosive sound that seems to reverberate around them. Winta and the kid both jump, but then laugh. Kuiil, though, lets out a squeak and whimpers. He shoves his face against Din’s arm, but then pulls back and glares at the wet fabric before letting out a wail.

“Here,” Din mutters, holding him out to the kid. “I’m wet.” Light shines into the hut for just a moment as lightning forks across the sky. The kid takes him and Kuiil continues to cry, burrowing into his arms. 

“It may clear soon,” Omera says. “The more intense storms tend to pass by faster.”

“Has the lightning ever struck a hut?” Din asks. “It seems like a possibility.”

“Once, but that was a long time ago.” Satisfied that the windows are covered, Omera turns to them with a smile.

“I don’t want to intrude,” he says.

“Not at all,” Omera says. “It’s a long walk to your ship, and you’d only get wet. It’s not an intrusion.”

Din frowns, but he just nods.

Winta slips past Din and Omera to walk to the other side of the hut. Kuiil still cries into the boy’s shoulder, but when he goes to follow Winta, the cries begin to taper. Winta kneels down and pulls out a box from under a table and sets it on the middle of the floor, smiling as she opens it. “We can play games!” she says.

Din watches. It’s a sized box of different games, and she pulls out game boards and pieces. The kid sits across from her, then looks up at Din. “What’s the word for a game?” he asks.

_ “Geroya,”  _ Din says.

_ “Geroya.”  _ Kuiil has settled in his lap, sniffling as he watches Winta look through the games. Omera walks over to sit with them, and Din takes the other side, the four sitting on the floor in a square.

Winta looks up at Din. “Do Mandalorians have games?” she asks.

“We do,” Din says.

“What kind?”

“They’re more… violent than you would want.”

The kid looks at him with curiosity while Winta sits up. “What does that mean?”

“They’re more… about learning skills while playing,” Din says. “You had fun but were practicing, too. We had one game where there’s two teams with a flag. You try to steal the other team’s flag and bring it back to your own. Whoever succeeds wins the round. You could do whatever you had to to win.”

“Did  _ you  _ win?” Winta asks.

“Sometimes I could get the flag, yes,” Din says, and he glances at the kid out of the corner of his eye but doesn’t turn his head. “But having it made you a target. It can get violent.”

“Mandalorians like fighting,” Omera says.

Din looks at her. He nods. “It’s… fun, but helpful,” he says. “There’s patience in sitting and guarding your flag. Staying alert. Or speed and timing in being the one who grabs it.” He shifts. “We have  _ cu’bikad.  _ That’s a game with knives like darts or chess.  _ Meshgeroya  _ and  _ get’shuk  _ are others. Those get physical.”

“Do you wear armor for those?” Winta asks.

“Depends,” Din says. Thunder cracks again. Kuiil cries out but only huddles against the kid.

“Won’t you get hurt?”

“You get used to it,” Din says. “But you want to be tough. It’s competitive. Painful, yes, but rewarding.”

Winta nods, then looks through the game boards, lips pursed in thought. “We can play this!” she says, and pulls out a folded board to spread on the floor. It’s covered in color-coded hexagons and there’s another box that spills out ‘credits’ and different colored pieces. In the center, faded beneath the lines, is the recognizable title.

“Galactic Expansion,” Din reads. “You want to play… this?”

“Yeah!” Winta says with a smile.

“Isn’t this the one with buying assets and planets?” Din asks.

Winta nods, already starting to organize the pieces.

“Isn’t it  _ complicated?” _

“That’s why it’s fun!” Winta smiles. “Pick a color.”

Din takes blue, the kid takes red, Winta grabs white and Omera takes purple. Kuiil gets a green piece, too, but it’s more for play than to participate, when it’s shoved in his mouth. Winta picks up the rule card as Omera begins to organize the credits.

“Roll the ten-sided die for how many hexagons you get to move,” she reads aloud. “Hexagon colors indicate the resource’s identification, such as spice mines, planets, moons, starports, shipping lanes… E-T-C. Whatever that means.”

“It’s et—“ Omera starts.

“See page three for an extended resource list. Each time you land on a hexagon, you have the option to purchase that resource. Each resources produces a standard rate of income. Multiple resources like shipping lanes allow for greater earnings. Owned properties are then marked with a piece of your color. After each roll, take a scenario card, which will update you on the status of your investments.”

“Uh,” the kid mutters, staring at all the hexagons.

“This might be a bit much?” Din says, looking at Omera.

“It’s her favorite,” Omera sighs.

“Scenario cards can make or break your investments, leaving them up to chance. After a full round, income is distributed. Resources can be bought from other players, traded, or bankrupted. If all resources are lost, your player piece goes to the Planet of Bankruptcy.” Winta points to a dark grey hexagon in the corner of the board.

“Planet of Bankruptcy?”

“Yes.” Winta drops the card. “Okay. Let’s play.”

Omera holds back a laugh as Winta grabs the die and gives it a shake before tossing it. It lands and rolls on an  _ eight,  _ with a hissed “yes!” before she grabs her piece and jumps by eight hexagons. She grabs a white possession piece from the box “... Okay. Orange is a… shipping lane. 400 credits. Mama, you have to be the banker.”

“Sure.”

Kuiil gurgles.

Winta’s scenario card returns 50 extra credits to her but nothing else. Din rolls next, landing a five, and he pauses before jumping to a blue hexagon. “Hey—” Winta starts.

“I counted,” he says.

She grumbles, but doesn’t say more.

Din lets out a dismissive huff but buys the spice mine for 500 credits. The scenario card only reads  _ business as usual.  _

The kid is hesitant before he goes, looking uncertain, and he rolls—but the die is caught in the air and Kuiil coos, lifting it back to the kid’s hand. “Kuiil, no,” he mumbles, and tosses it again.

A four. “So I…?”

“You can move anywhere, four hexagons away,” Din says. “Whatever color you land on indicates something like a starport or spice mine. You can choose whether or not to buy it.”

The kid looks down at the game credits in front of him, then reaches out. His hand lingers on his player piece, then he hops four pieces over to a purple hexagon. “What’s purple?”

“A smuggler’s route!” Winta says. “For shipping. So if all the shipping lanes are gone, you can still make credits.”

The kid tilts his head and buys it. His card gives him back 25 credits.

Omera rolls and lands on a star, but doesn’t take it. The credits of their investments are paid back and they go another round. The thunder remains booming, but Kuiil seems to expect it now and curls up in the kid’s lap. Winta is eager to get planets while Din leans for starports and shipping lanes for trade. He only bothers with one planet and a single smuggler’s route, his returns increasing every round.

Omera plays it safe with some planets and lanes. The kid takes a planet, a spice mine, and several smugglers’ routes. After multiple rounds, Din glances at his pieces and frowns. “Kid,” he says, “you know one card can shut down all those routes?”

“I know.”

Din frowns, but turns back to his own credits. He bites his cheek and rolls a six. He looks around, then hops onto the next shipping lane, purchasing it. He pulls a card. “... Permit for shipping lanes is retracted. Lose all lanes. What?”

Winta grins. Din sighs and picks off his possession pieces off the board.

Slowly, he finds himself losing. His income is slashed without lanes and he’s only managed to reclaim one when his smugglers’ route is shut down. The funds deplete quickly and he has to sell some starports to Omera and Winta.

Kuiil crawls out of the kid’s lap and into his to lie down.

As their rounds continue, both Winta and the kid keep pulling in money. Omera pulls the first bankruptcy card, sweeping aside all her possession pieces and landing her player piece at the  _ Planet of Bankruptcy.  _ “Looks lonely,” Din says. She gives him a playful glare.

After several rounds, he finds himself with exactly one planet in his possession, none else. Winta, smiling, says “I can sell you a starport!”

Din sighs. “Sure.”

“1,350 credits.”

“What? That’s… three times the cost to get it. You can’t do that.”

“Yeah, you can! You can do up to three times as much.”

“You can only do two.”

“No, three.”

“I’ve played this before, it’s two.”

“It’s  _ three,”  _ Winta insists, and she reaches for the rule card.

Din grumbles and leans back on his hands. “I played when I was a kid. You could only sell at twice the amount. You’re winning anyway.”

“Could’ve been a rule change,” Omera says.

“That’s dumb.”

Omera shrugs with a smile.

“Three!” Winta says, and she holds the card out to him. “You can take three times as much for it.” Din reads it over, then sighs and gathers up the credits, handing them over. Winta smiles, “Thank you!”

His blue piece replaces her white. The next round, he draws bankruptcy, losing it all.

He and Omera are certainly too far behind to have a chance at winning, and there’s no chance anyway when they have no money and all the resources are taken by the kids. The boy owns every smuggling route and a third of the planets while Winta owns the rest. Their income is fairly equal, though Winta edges ahead. Din and Omera watch until Kuiil starts to whine and they both get up to find him food.

The storm still rages outside.

On the other side of the hut, Din and Omera stand and watch as Kuiil chews on some krill. “She understands it so well,” he says. “I played it with my clan. It could be hard to grasp the strategy.”

“Really?” Omera says with a smile. “We’re out. You’re  _ technically  _ still in.”

“He’s bought all the smuggler routes and there’s a dozen cards to shut it down,” Din says. “Not strategy. Just luck.”

Omera shrugs. “She usually wins,” she says. “Losses have only been from the bankruptcy cards being pulled at the last second.”

Din just smiles. “She’s smart.”

“It’s too much.”

He looks at her. “How?”

“She’s…” Omera sighs. “I’d like to blame it on you and Cara. But she looks to the stars more and more. She’s never thought of beyond our village. She’s only been as far as the town. But now, she’s starting to think of travelling, of getting to see things, and -- I don’t think it’s  _ bad,  _ but…”

“She’s your daughter,” Din says. “You don’t want to lose her to the galaxy.”

Omera sighs. “It must sound silly. And selfish.”

“It’s not,” Din says. “We didn’t… with the Mandalorians, we didn’t have to swear the Creed. We had the choice. I went through with it, but I had friends, who… decided they didn’t want it.” He adjusts Kuiil. “They helped in different ways, but some didn’t want anything to do with it. They had other aspirations, and just left. Some got on a transport out and were dropped off somewhere. To me, they’ve… disappeared. It’s easy to disappear without a bounty on you.”

Omera takes a breath.

“But that’s--” He bites his lip. “That wasn’t as… helpful as I thought. But—it’s normal for you to be worried. The galaxy is big. I was raised to face it. She wasn’t.”

“The way she’s talked sometimes, she seems ready to run off and join the Mandalorians,” Omera mutters.

Din glances towards Winta, who’s rolling the die, and smiles but shakes his head. “She wouldn’t want it,” he says. “Not with what it’s become.”

“As if I should be unloading this on you,” Omera sighs. “You’re traveling the galaxy with your boy. And now your… your past self. The stress that must be…”

Din lets out a breath. “I… worry,” he says. He looks down at Kuiil. “He’s a toddler at fifty years old. I’m not  _ young.  _ Even if I get every last second with him, I don’t… I don’t know that it would mean anything. If he’s still a child and left alone. If he forgets about me.”

“He won’t forget,” Omera says.

“If he lives to be a  _ thousand,  _ I don’t--”

“He  _ won’t  _ forget. You don’t forget that kind of love.” Omera smiles. “He may not remember a lot of things, but he will  _ know  _ that there was someone who loved him. Without a doubt.”

It isn’t enough to get through his worry, but he nods. “Thank you,” he says. “I’m just… doing all I can. I need to get him to someone, eventually. One of my people. Someone else who can take care of him when I can’t.”

“Well, if you… can’t find someone.” Omera smiles. “He likes it here. We could volunteer.”

Din looks down at Kuiil, who’s starting to blink sleepily until there’s another crash of thunder and he jerks up, staring at Din with big eyes. Din starts to stroke his head and over an ear, fingers firm until Kuiil starts to close his eyes again, cooing.

“He does like it here,” he says.

Omera smiles down at Kuiil. “He’s lucky to have you,” she says. “I can’t imagine anyone else being able to protect him like you do.”

Din adjusts the baby, still stroking, and feels a… twinge at the words. His entire life has turned into protecting this one small, powerful child. Months of surviving day to day, no income and fending off hunters. Searching and searching, uselessly, for Kuiil’s species. Now, the effort and stress of bounty hunting with a toddler to look after.

He’s hit with the realization that, had he been anyone else, had he been trained any less, Kuiil would likely be in Gideon’s hands.

“No—”

“Yes!”

They look over. The kid slumps back onto the floor with a sigh while Winta punches the air, grinning. The kid drops the card and crosses his arms as Winta looks over. “His smuggler routes got busted,” she says.

“I’m done,” the kid says.

“But we’re not done!” Winta says. “Everything has to be owned.”

The kid sits up. “You’re winning. I can’t win.”

“But you keep going.”

The kid frowns.

“Winta, how about we have lunch and maybe play something else?” Omera says. “Maybe there’s something the baby can play, too.”

Winta pouts, but she nods and she and the kid both begin to clean up the game. Omera starts to take out stored food and Din holds Kuiil to his chest, watching the boy drift towards sleep. He’s fussy, squirming about though his eyes are sleepy, letting out a soft coo.

_ I’ve got you,  _ Din thinks.

Lunch is simple; Omera sets up a curtain and Din sits behind it, the kid and Kuiil in front of him. They mostly eat in silence, but when Omera and Winta talk on the other side, the kid looks up at him. “Are you going to marry  _ her?” _ he whispers.

Din looks at him. “What—kid. Stop.”

The kid just grins.

After lunch, the entertainment becomes tossing a ball around, and according to Winta’s rules, you have to remain  _ silent  _ the entire time or you’re out. They’re spread out around the hut, and quickly the rules are altered so the baby can actually play. Kuiil finds throwing a ball with the Force absolutely delightful, but it means he’s giggling in the first five seconds.

Dropping the ball or messing up a toss also gets you out, so coordination and silence make it easy for Din. He wins the first three rounds, then loses the fourth when the ball hits his hand and  _ just  _ bounces out of reach. Kuiil takes that round, a ball of laughter himself.

“He doesn’t even have to touch it,” the kid grumbles.

Winta pats him on the shoulder.

But then the next round, Kuiil has lost interest, and he instead gets up and wanders towards the door. Din watches him peer outside, and he lets out an excited babble before darting out.

“Hey,” Din says.

He gets up and follows out. The rain is gone, the ground soaked but sun shining. Din glances up at the blue sky as Kuiil leans down to touch the wet ground, cooing. In the distance, there are scattered branches from the trees, but no major damage. The ground around the ponds looks messy but farmers are already creeping out of their homes, walking out to tend to the damage.

Then Winta and the kid dart past him, both smiling at the blue sky.

“It’ll storm again,” Omera says, coming to stand beside him.

_ “Wet season  _ might be an understatement,” Din says.

“It is.” Omera smiles.

The kids are happy to play out in the sun, and everyone returns to work, laying wet things to dry and picking up whatever was blown over. Once the firewood is stored in the barn, Din stands on the porch and watches.

The kid and Kuiil scribble in the dirt together, both looking happy. Kuiil draws lines while the kid writes, and Din sees that he’s trying to spell Mando’a words in Basic. There’s a feeling in his chest that he can’t make out, but it’s… warm and soothing. The kid looks up at him.

Din nods.

Sorgan is peaceful. It lightens their moods, the kids able to run and breathe to release energy while Din can take a moment to relax. The boy smiles more than Din had anticipated. He loves playing with Winta, he likes the other kids, and for the four days that they’ve been there, his meltdowns have calmed.

But the nightmares haven’t.

Din is jerked awake by screams that reverberate around the ship, wrenching him up and to the ladder. He all but drops down to the cargo hold, landing harsh on his feet and sending a sharp pain up into his ankles, but the doors are closed and there’s no threat. Instead, the sounds come from a sobbing boy on the floor, who cries out. “M-Mama, Papa, pl… please…”

“Kid,” Din says. “Kid. You’re okay. Din.”

The kid curls up with his back to the wall, sobbing into his hands. Kuiil is looking over, ears flattened, and he looks to Din before he gets up and wanders over to the boy’s side.

Din feels the adrenaline ache in his body before he kneels down in front of the kid. “Din,” he tries again, reaching out to take hold of his forearms. “Look at me. Look.”

“No!” the kid cries, shoving him away. “I-I want Mama, I want Mama, get off get  _ off--” _

Din lets go and the kid curls in on himself, continuing to sob. Din watches him, then feels a push at his knee and looks down at Kuiil, who looks up at him with sad, helpless eyes. Din scoops him up, watching the boy. There’s an ache in his heart upon hearing it, a feeling he sympathizes with to the point of anxiety.

He sits beside him. The kid trembles, tears streaking down his face, hiding in his hands. The misery seems to come off in waves, and Kuiil stares at him with a soft expression and folded ears. He makes a tiny coo, but Din holds him tight to his chest and strokes his ears. Under the relaxing gesture, Kuiil closes his eyes.

His childhood feels so far away. Even the voice of his  _ buir  _ has faded from memory, warped and changed in his mind over time. He tries to think back to the happier times with him, when his voice had soothed Din, when he’d chased away the nightmares and comforted him.

He lets out a breath, watching the kid cry, hands tightening for a moment.

He begins to speak in Mando’a.

_ “Kote. Kandosii sa ka’rta, Vode an.” _

Music had been a help in learning to pronounce Mando’a, and the song  _ Vode An  _ had been sung to him with an easy rhythm. He doesn’t try to sing it, just softly speaks the words, so lodged in his memory that he can’t forget them.  _ “Coruscanta a’den mhi, Vode an. Bal kote, darasuum kote, jorso’ran kando a tome.” _

It doesn’t make the kid stop crying. He sobs still into his arms, trembling, hiccuping his grief and fear and misery. But Din taps the rhythm against Kuiil, who coos up at him, smiling at the sound of his voice. He’s still helmeted until he reaches up and takes it off, setting it aside, and Kuiil coos again.

They sit there. Din doesn’t know how long. He goes through the song once, then shifts through others --  _ Gra’tua Cuun, Kote Darasuum,  _ whatever words he can remember. At some point, it becomes gibberish. But he keeps speaking Mando’a, until the kid’s eyes are splotchy but out of tears and he looks at Din, breath uneven and shaky. “What are you saying?” he asks, sniffling.

“They’re words to Mandalorian songs,” Din says. “You’re going to learn them. My  _ buir  _ would sing them to me when I was upset and it calmed me down after nightmares.”

“It’s not working,” the kid says with a scowl.

“Sometimes, it was just a distraction.” Din looks at him. “Nightmare?”

The kid stares at him, then nods.

“About?”

The kid swallows. “Them,” he whispers. When Din looks at him, he holds himself tighter. “We were… home. Happy. Then… everything exploded. They were gone. And I c-could… see them. See all of it.” He bites his lip. “No one came to  _ help.” _

Din nods, quiet, as Kuiil coos.

“... They don’t go away,” he says. “The nightmares. The bad dreams. They won’t leave you alone. Not until…” Din pauses. “One day, you just learn to go back to sleep.”

The kid stares at him.

“I don’t remember them,” Din says. “Nothing like you do. I can’t see their faces in my mind. I can’t hear their voices. It’s been thirty years and they’re as good as strangers. The Mandalorians became my family.” He pauses. “I’ve… felt like I owed them ever since.”

They fall into silence. Din feels exhaustion start to creep back into his system and the dim lights of the ship don’t help. Kuiil crawls out of his arms and down onto the floor, waddling to the kid’s side. The kid loosens enough to let him climb into his lap and lie against his chest, cooing. He reaches up for the necklace, tucked beneath the kid’s shirt but string visible. He trills and tugs, but it doesn’t come free.

“He likes it,” the kid mumbles.

“It’s something to stick in his mouth,” Din says.

The kid looks down at him and begins to pet his back. “How’d you get him?” he whispers.

“Bad people wanted him,” Din says. “I’ve been protecting him.”

“But he’s your son.”

“Yeah.” Din crackles a smile. “That was… an accident. He’s a foundling.”

The kid stares at Kuiil. “... Like me,” he whispers.

“Yeah. Like you.”

The kid smiles a little, then, and leans forward to plant a kiss against Kuiil’s head. The baby makes a confused trill and stares at him, ears pricked. The kid giggles and Din smiles. “He’s not used to kisses like that,” he says.

“What do you do, then?”

Din pauses, then reaches for his helmet. “Come here.”

The kid sniffles, then lifts Kuiil out of his lap and crawls over, kneeling in front of Din. Din slips the helmet back on, blinking to adjust to the HUD, then looks at the kid. The kid frowns. “But the helmet…”

“We don’t have time to take them off,” Din says. “If we’re leaving for battle or in the middle of one, we can’t always take it off for a normal kiss. So we do them with helmets. We call it a Keldabe kiss.”

“Keldabe,” the kid says. “That’s… kiss? In Mando’a?”

“No. It’s the name of a city on Mandalore.” Din shifts them closer. “Lean in.”

The kid leans forward and Din meets him halfway, tapping their foreheads together. They hold, and after a few seconds, Din leans back. “There,” he says. “That’s a Mandalorian kiss. That’s what I do with him.”

The kid smiles. Then he leans forward and nearly slams his forehead into Din’s helmet, immediately wincing at the impact.

Din leans back and laughs, grabbing the kid and pushing him back. “The hell are you doing?”

The kid pouts and rubs at his forehead, leaning back. “Too hard,” he grumbles.

“Yeah, felt like it.” Din reaches up and takes the helmet off. “But that’s how it goes. He’s used to the helmet.”

The kid looks over, a hopeful expression on his face. “... Could I try it with him?”

Din hesitates, but he nods and hands the helmet over. “Sure.”

The kid grins and grabs it out of Din’s hand, pulling it on, and he immediately leans back as it obscures his vision. “... Whoa,” he whispers, holding his hands out in front of him. Kuiil makes a questioning “ah?” as his head tilts, looking at the kid. “It’s a screen.”

“It’s a HUD,” Din says. “Heads up display.” Then he smiles and reaches for his vambrace, pressing a button. The kid gasps as his vision turns to infrared and he stares at Kuiil, then Din. Then he pushes for night vision. He raises and lowers the HUD’s visibility from light to dark, then returns it all to normal. “That helps with vision. The T-shape is part of a Mandalorian helmet, but it’s not good for optics.”

“Whoa,” the kid says again. Then he looks at Kuiil. “Hey. Want a kiss?”

Kuiil coos at him, ears flat.

The kid leans down and touches the helmet to Kuiil’s forehead. The kid’s ears perk up in an instant and he lets out an excited trill, reaching up to pat against the helmet. The kid giggles, then lays on his stomach and wraps his arms around the kid. Kuiil’s ears lower but don’t flatten, and they lie in that position.

Din smiles, gets up, and begins back up to the cockpit.

“D… Din?”

He looks back. The kid turns his head slightly, face masked.

“Do you think Winta would like it?” he mumbles.

“I think she would, yes,” Din says. The kid nods and returns back to the position with Kuiil, who’s laid down too with their heads still touching. Din turns and puts a foot up on the ladder.

He turns back.

“...  _ Why  _ do you want…  _ Winta?” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mando'a:  
> Geroya - game, play (nearly hunt)  
> Cu'bikad - indoor game that involves stabbing knives into a checkered board  
> Meshgeroya - limmie or bolo-ball - "the beautiful game"  
> Get'shuk - team game similar to meshgeroya, similar to rugby  
> 
> 
> The [discord](https://discord.gg/UwZuG6N)  
> Follow me on [tumblr](https://coffee-quill.tumblr.com/)


	6. At Peace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The kid laughs, too, a reassuring sound to hear with everything in consideration.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The [discord](https://discord.gg/UwZuG6N)  
> Follow me on [tumblr](https://coffee-quill.tumblr.com/)

How does one repay a lifetime debt?

These thoughts follow Din’s every step around the village, whether he’s helping move things or watching over the kids. He gives the kid and Winta a more critical eye, to the boy’s grumbling and Winta’s obliviousness on the matter—a firm talk about that crush seems enough to dissuade him. Four storms move by, and Din can see from the villagers that this is a normal routine that they adjust to. The speed of moving things under cover increases, the clouds spotted faster.

His mind is a whirl, every part of him feeling permanently unsettled, and it only increases each day.

When they’ve been on Sorgan for a week, it feels like forever has gone by. Kuiil is perfectly happy with the attention he receives, and the kid’s nightmares haven’t ceased but he appears distracted when he’s playing. There’s no danger, no threat, aside from the krill ponds that are occupied all day anyway. Din is spent. He’s done little physical exertion, but there’s a part of him that just feels _spent._

“I don’t know what to do,” Din mutters.

Omera gives him a concerned look, then slices through the krill, careful to keep it neat. “About the boy?”

“How to send him back.” Din’s arms are crossed over his chest, near pacing on the other side of the table. “How to get him home. Cara said that if he’s _me,_ then things must be fine because I’m still me. Nothing has changed. And I don’t remember experiencing any of this.”

Omera just shakes her head. “I don’t know, either. I didn’t think this sort of thing was possible.”

“It shouldn’t be.” Din scowls. “He shouldn’t be here. He should be with the Mandalorians, with a clan, learning to adjust. Not here. Not with me.”

“He just appeared.”

“Out of nowhere.”

Omera lets out a soft sigh. “I don’t know,” she says.

Around them, Kuiil wanders, cooing at the sticks he finds. He drags one in the dirt, hovering around Din. The kids are playing in the center of the village, but Kuiil has decided he wants to be with Din today. Din looks down at him.

“You said it might be because of…” He pauses. Kuiil turns to look up at him. “My thoughts about a debt.”

“It _seems_ like an explanation,” Omera says.

“So what sends him back? I suddenly stop feeling that way, and he disappears back to his time?”

“That could be it.”

Din sighs. Kuiil walks over and grabs his boot before raising his arms, and Din leans down to grab him up. He gets an enthusiastic _“Wheee!”_ before Kuiil giggles and snuggles against his chest. Omera gives them both a smile, and despite his turmoil, his stomach flutters.

“You can only do the best you can,” Omera says. “I don’t think you can change how you think overnight. But if… you could change your viewpoint on the whole thing, it may help.”

Din frowns. “My… viewpoint.”

“Of your past. Of your oath.”

Din looks down at Kuiil.

“Maybe not as a rock that you’re tied to.” Omera looks up at him. “Maybe as something that gives you wings.”

Din pauses. Kuiil coos at him.

“Am I interrupting?”

Din whips around at the voice and stares at Cara, who walks over with an easy smile on her face. She’s strapped with her weapons, satchel over her shoulder, and Kuiil squeals at the sight of her. She walks to them and stops just short with a grin and a “hey, buddy.”

“Cara,” Din says. “What are you doing here?”

“I finished the job and you said you were coming here. Managed to get a ride.” Cara looks at Omera and gives her a nod. Omera nods back, smiling. Then she glances back at Din. “Does she…?”

“She knows,” Din says.

“He’s still here?”

Din points towards the village center. Cara looks over—the kid stands out with earthy brown colors, contrasting with the blue of the village children. He watches them chase each other around, laughing. She looks back to Din. “He looks happy,” she says.

“He has nightmares,” Din says. “But he’s coping.”

Cara nods. Kuiil makes a demanding trill and Cara smiles, setting her satchel by the table. “Hey, Kuiil.”

Kuiil leans out of Din’s arms to her. Din hands him over and Kuiil coos, curling up into her arm. Then she sits at the table, across from Omera. “No progress?” she says. “You haven’t found anything? What about your home planet?”

Din sighs. “Nothing,” he says. “We found a datapad in my old home that had some recorded things from… before. There was a necklace I buried at the old campsite, but… nothing that gave answers.”

“A necklace?” Cara says.

“He still wears it,” Din says. “But I buried it because I thought I’d come home again. Then Mandalore became my home. It’s still there.”

“And then you came here.” Cara frowns, then shakes her head. “I don’t know. It just doesn’t make sense.”

For a moment, there’s only cooing from Kuiil, as though recounting their adventures since seeing her. After a few moments, Omera speaks.

“It might be about his Creed,” she says.

Cara looks at her, then at Din. “Your Creed?”

Omera looks at him as well and Din lets out a sigh. “I’ve… always felt like I owed the Mandalorians for what they did for me,” he says. “She thinks that may be why he’s here.”

Cara pauses. “... I can see that,” she says.

“How am I supposed to change my thinking like that?” Din says. “It’s been my entire life. I can’t just… I can’t just change like that. They took care of me when they didn’t have to, spend resources where they weren’t obligated. They were kind to me no matter how much I’d hated them for it.. I’ve felt a debt for that for thirty years. They gave me a purpose.”

Cara looks towards Omera. “He was going to die to keep the helmet on,” she says.

Omera frowns.

“Mama!”

They all look as Winta calls over, waving, and Omera begins to get up. “Excuse me,” she mutters, before she walks over.

Cara looks at Din, crossing her arms. “I get the purpose,” she says. “That’s what the rebellion was for me. The Resistance gave me hope and a mission and purpose, and when—” She let out a breath. “When Alderaan was destroyed, it was _really_ all I had. My friends, my family, gone in an instant. All I had left were friends in the Resistance. And they were dying, too.”

Din is quiet.

“Then, it was… completing the mission. Like you were taught. Drop in, kill as many of the white-armored bastards as I could. Live to fight another day. Over and over, until we won and I wasn’t fighting an enemy anymore.” Cara looks at him. “I get it, Din. We both were given a purpose. But we’re still our own people. I’ll always call myself an Alderaanian, I’ll always call myself a Rebel. But you can’t go through life feeling a debt like that. It would eat me alive.”

“I… know,” Din says.

Cara nods. Then Kuiil coos again, ears pricked, and she looks down at him. “Besides,” she says, “you nearly died to save this little one’s life.” She looks up at him. “Sounds like a fair payment to me.”

Din stares at her, then at Kuiil. He’s happily cuddling into her, soon settling with his eyes shut. Din can’t pull his eyes away, those thoughts running through his head.

Cara knows. Of course she knows what it’s like. The Mandalorians have seen abuse by the Empire, but the Alderaanians had their planet destroyed by the Death Star. It isn’t fair to compare tragedies, there’s no contest to it. But it’s not as though the Alderaanians are thriving where the Mandalorians wither.

They’ve both found their purpose somewhere.

And the baby lives. He lives to laugh and breathe and play, to cry and scream and whine. To give Din heart attacks and to make him appreciate the calm quiet, to appreciate _sleep._ His life has become better since he became the father to a small green alien of indeterminate species. Handing him off to the Empire for a camtono of beskar had been his shame for so long, and rescuing him has been his single greatest act thus far.

A life for a life.

The villagers are as delighted to see Cara again as they were to see Din. They decide to start lunch up earlier than usual to account for the new arrival, and like with Din, she’s quickly surrounded by children begging for stories of beyond their horizons.

Din watches as Cara, spotchka in hand, begins to tell them about the Battle of Endor and how the Resistance had fought against the monstrosity of the Empire—a fascinating tale for little ones who didn’t experience the Empire’s strength themselves. Sorgan was certainly too much of a backwater planet for the Empire to have dug its claws in. They listen with rapt attention, eyes big.

Kuiil sits in her lap, eyes closed but ears pricked. Din watches the kid, who sits among the children and looks just as fascinated.

Din wonders if he sees it as a story, or realizes it’s history.

Cara is only just getting to the destruction of the first Death Star, talking about _Luke Skywalker_ and how he’d been the ace pilot to _blow it up,_ when they’re called over for lunch. The kids all groan but hunger outweighs their interest and they all scramble to be fed. Din gets up and walks over to Cara. Kuiil looks up at him and trills.

“Some story,” he says.

Cara looks at him with a smile. “Where were you during the war?” she asks. “Already traveling?”

“In a sense,” Din says. “After the Purge, we were… scattered. Some coverts had formed. I was on my own. Drifted for a while, finding whatever work I could. I fell in with a crew—people who needed my skill set. It’s a time that I regret, the jobs weren’t clean, but… it kept me on my own feet.”

Cara nods. “Sounds like me after everything.” She sips the spotchka. “Everyone has that dark point.”

“Endor happened just after I found my covert,” Din says. “The first time I left to earn us money, I was on Naboo for a target. The celebrations made for a good distraction.”

Cara smirks. “You’re welcome,” she says.

“I think I could’ve done fine anyway.”

“Sure.”

Din rolls his eyes.

Din takes his own lunch in the barn, not far away but with Kuiil in his lap to feed as well. The baby babbles in between bites, practically telling a whole story of his own, and Din nods along as he eats. He finishes quickly to slip his helmet back on and Kuiil inhales his lunch to wander back out. They find their way back to Cara, who finishes the last of her spotchka with the kid beside her.

The kid is picking at the last of his food before they look up at Din. Kuiil walks over and pats the kid’s shin, cooing.

“How long did you plan to stay?” Din asks.

“As long as you weren’t in crisis,” Cara says. “And until Karga begs me to come back and fix another mess for him.”

Din just nods.

Cara leans back and smiles up at him. “Give it an hour. You and I go a round?”

Din eyes her. “... Sure,” he says. “A round.”

Cara grins.

With food digested, they walk out to the trees. Kuiil follows along in Cara’s arms and the kid trails behind Din, insistent that he wants to watch.

They find a secluded spot with enough room to be able to both move but use their surroundings. They put their guns and charges aside, leaving only their hands. Cara sets Kuiil to sit on the edge of the area, beside a tree, and the kid sits next to him with a curious gaze.

“It’s not real,” Din says firmly to Kuiil. “We’re not really fighting. Got that?”

Kuiil coos.

“Good.”

They take several minutes to stretch and let things pop before they turn and face each other from opposite sides. They step in closer, eyes scanning for weaknesses, watching each other’s movements.

Cara has raw strength. Even through beskar, she can give him a beating and her footwork is spectacular. She’s as dangerous as he is, somehow able to exploit every weakness he has. She’s not Paz with hulking size and strength—but a different kind of deadly.

They watch each other, slow, careful.

Din dives in first. He swings in with a punch, one arm up to guard his face. Cara sidesteps, just barely out of the way, and grabs his arm to throw a knee up. Din throws his other arm down and blocks it. He grips her wrist and grabs behind her knee instead, wrenching them both to the ground. He lands on one knee, Cara on her back. 

Cara hisses, then brings her knee up and plants her foot against his cuirass, shoving him back as she twists her wrist out against his grip. He falls back with a grunt and Cara rolls back, onto her feet in a crouch. Both scramble to their feet again before they lunge in again.

Their armor clacks together, echoing in the trees.

Cara slams her knee between his legs and even with a cup, he doubles over and groans before forcing himself up. She strikes him in the side of the head with her elbow, a moment of stunning before he catches her next punch and twists her arm. Cara hisses, then sidekicks him, forcing him back. He steps back and grits his teeth, but doesn’t let go until she forces her wrist down and knee up, striking his elbow inwards. A stab of pain shoots through his arm, the nerve throbbing. He hisses and lets go.

She doesn’t give him the space, following instead with another kick to his chest, and he stumbles back before tripping. He hits the ground and scowls, then feels Cara’s weight slam down on him, a foot pinning his wrist. A knee keeps his other arm against the ground as he’s straddled. The top of his cuirass is grabbed. Cara reaches to her holster, and for a moment Din shoves his chest up, “Wait—”

She holds her hand in front of his visor, finger cocked like a blaster, and makes a high-pitched _“Pew.”_

Din stares at her.

He bursts into laughter.

He can’t breathe at first with Cara on top of him until she gets up, laughing too, and he doesn’t know why but he can hardly control himself. _“Pew,_ you said—” he breathes, the fucking _image_ of a shock trooper doing that appearing fresh in his mind, bringing on laughter again.

Cara laughs beside him, and when they look at each other, they quiet down into near giggles and huffs, until Cara is swiping tears from her eyes and Din is blinking them away, catching his breath.

“That was stupid,” he breathes. “That was so, so stupid.”

“Yeah.” Cara grins. “It was.”

But he feels… lighter, now. He sits up and looks towards the kids, who smile, then takes a gulp of air. Some part of him feels more relaxed for the laughter. A gentle wind goes by.

“Go again?” Cara says. “That felt cut short.”

“Yeah. Again.” Din begins to get up.

Their sparring continues for the next half hour, going more by quick rounds than an all-out fight. They both edge each other for most rounds won, always sweeping the victory out from the other with a sudden turn, pull and lock. There’s a different feel to friendly matches, a sharp contrast to their first meeting. Still intense, still a matter of pride.

But they’re not trying to kill each other, and that’s pleasant.

Finally they end at a draw—panting, drenched in sweat, the last several rounds ending in deadlocks that become more wrestling with neither getting the edge.

“You’re slow,” Cara grumbles.

Din huffs. “You don’t hit as hard.”

They both chuckle.

For a bit, they just lay on the ground as they catch their breath, until Kuiil wanders onto Din’s HUD with a coo, a smile and then a shriek. He plants his hands against Din’s visor, and Din scoops him into his arms as he sits up. He giggles.

“That was a workout,” Cara says.

Din nods. He begins to get up. “It was.” He puts a hand on his vambrace, rolling his other wrist, and Cara looks at them with a smirk.

“You need to hook me up with a pair like that,” she says. “Could use that fire.”

The kid walks over from the tree, looking shy as he hugs himself, but smiling. “You can use fire?” he asks.

Din nods. He glances down at Kuiil, then gives his arm a flick before he raises it up and unleashes a cloud of fire into the air. The kid jumps and Kuiil giggles, the light reflecting in his eyes. It’s brief, disappearing quickly, but the kid looks enchanted. “Whoa,” he whispers.

Kuiil lets out a string of babbled words, reaching for the vambrace. Din lets him grab it, and the kid is looking at Cara with awe. “Could you teach me to fight like that?” he whispers.

Cara smiles, glancing at Din. “A few things, maybe,” she says.

Din smiles, too, hidden beneath the helmet.

The sensation of lightness follows him. Cara’s words about _purpose_ sink in, coming back again and again, leaving him adrift in his thoughts as time goes on. The kid plays with his friends, Kuiil with him though sometimes he decides he wants Din or Cara instead. Din sits and holds him, often sore from sparring with Cara or relaxing after eating.

“Tell me what you’re thinking.”

Din glances at Cara, then shifts, moving a chess piece forward. “How to beat you.”

Cara smirks. “No, dumbass,” she says. “I mean emotionally. We had that talk weeks ago and then you shut up. Tell me where you’re at right now.”

Din leans back. “I’m… thinking about what you said,” he says. “About… how you can’t tie yourself to the past forever. You can’t owe a debt forever. _I_ can’t owe a debt forever.”

Cara nods, makes a hum, moves another piece forward. “It’s not that you felt you owed them,” she says. “It’s understandable. They did save your life and give you a new one. I think it’s that you still feel that debt after a lifetime.”

Din nods, too, scanning the board. “Is accepting that going to send the kid back?”

“Maybe,” Cara says. “I don’t know. But either way, Omera is right. You need to figure this out for yourself, regardless of the kid. I’d punch it into you if I could.”

Din lets out an amused huff. “Thanks.”

“It’s what I’m here for.”

He shakes his head. But he keeps moving the pieces, thinking, and soon there’s a coo and tapping at his leg. He looks down at Kuiil, who raises his arms, and Din lifts him up into his lap.

Kuiil settles down there, sucking on two fingers as he looks at the game. Din reaches out to take one of Cara’s pieces, setting it aside. Cara grumbles. Then she takes his, and he sighs, stuck to look for a good move again.

Kuiil coos. He stands up and plants his hands against the table, looking at the game with wide eyes. Din pulls him to sit again, reaching out to make a move. Cara immediately takes the piece and he grumbles. Kuiil blows a raspberry, then stands again, ears expressive of curiosity.

“I don’t think he’d be alive if not for you,” Cara says.

Din nods. Kuiil lifts a hand out towards the pieces, cooing, then they all begin to rise into the air. “No—no,” he says quickly, grabbing the baby’s hand. The pieces all fall, rattling against the board but still standing. “Leave it.”

Kuiil pouts, then begins to whimper.

“No tears.” Din lifts him into his arms. But Kuiil buries his face in Din’s cuirass, face scrunched to begin waterworks. Din sighs, then grabs one of Cara’s taken pieces, holding it up to him. “Here. This? You want one?”

Kuiil looks up, tears rimming his eyes, but he reaches out and takes the piece. He stares at it, then sticks it in his mouth to suck on. Din grumbles and Cara makes a face. “I don’t need that back,” she says.

Din nods.

Their game continues now that Kuiil is satisfied with chewing on the piece. The sun is beginning to set, casting an orange glow over the village. Torches and lanterns are brought out in preparation for the darkness, planting in the ground, and when the board is nearly empty and Cara has Din in checkmate, he’s not that invested in the game anymore. Kuiil is staring at the sunset, reflected in his eyes, and he coos again before looking up at Din.

“Hi.”

Din looks over at the kid, who walks to them with mud on his hands and cheek, a smile on his face. “What did you get into?” Cara asks.

“We climbed some trees. I fell, but it was low. It only hurt a little.”

“Did you break something?” Din says.

“I don’t think, no.”

“Too bad.” He pulls the piece from Kuiil’s hands. “If you don’t break something, you didn’t play hard enough.”

The kid stares at him, but Cara snorts with a mutter of _“Mandos”_ and the kid grins. “I’ll break something next time,” he says.

“No—” Din stops, and he laughs. “No. Do not do that.”

The kid laughs, too, a reassuring sound to hear with everything in consideration. Din leans back in his seat, looking towards the sunset, feeling the warmth fade. There are no clouds in sight, not right now. He feels the most relaxed he’s been in months. Even when things with the baby had been fine, there was always a sense of stress, of hardship lurking around the corner. It had him on the edge, always. Now…

The baby is fine. The kid is fine. They’re welcome here and everything is _okay._

“Can you teach me to shoot?”

Din looks up. The kid is wringing the hem of his shirt, eyes flicking down to the blaster on Din’s hip, and he frowns before glancing at Cara. Cara only shrugs with a small smile before leaning back.

“You said you’d teach me,” the kid says.

He did.

“You want to learn?” Din says.

The kid nods.

“You’re not going to get freaked out by the noise?”

The kid’s expression drops, but he shakes his head. “I want to try it.”

Din pauses. The sun is still up; still light to see by. He looks around, then cradles Kuiil and stands. “Sure,” he says, a bit resigned. “We can go over some things.”

The kid lights up again, smiling, and Cara just gives them a nod as Din starts towards the edge of the village. The kid follows along behind him, Kuiil cooing in his arms, and the sun still shines bright. They walk past the krill ponds, getting nods from the workers. Omera is among them, Winta beside her as they look into a basket, and they give smiles.

They leave the farm behind, heading towards the ship. He walks up the ramp and to the weapons closet, opening it by control. The kid stands just behind him, watching as Din crouches down. He puts Kuiil on the ground and the baby turns to watch.

“What are you looking for?” the kid asks. “You have a blaster.”

“Something with less of a kick,” Din says. He reaches in and grabs a smaller blaster from off a bottom display, turning it over in his hands to examine. Still fully loaded. He stands and closes the doors, then walks back off the ship. The kid hurries to follow, Kuiil waddling after them.

“First things first,” Din says. “Always treat a gun like it’s loaded and ready to fire. Don’t touch the trigger unless you _intend_ to pull it. And don’t aim at anything you don’t mean to kill.”

The kid stares up at him, then nods.

“Okay.” Din lowers to a knee. “The safety is on. See?” He aims at a patch of grass and tries to squeeze the trigger, only it clicks but barely moves. “This one won’t let you pull the trigger, so you don’t fire by mistake. That stays on if you aren’t using it. But if you’re handling a gun, assume it’s loaded and the safety is off. You have to be careful.”

The kid nods.

“Okay, here.” Din grips the barrel and holds it out to the kid, keeping the operational end pointed at the ground. “Keep it aimed there. Just feel the weight. Don’t touch the trigger.”

The kid slowly takes hold of the blaster with two hands, and one he has it, Din lets go. The kid takes a deep breath, adjusting his grip, keeping it pointed at empty grass. “Okay,” he breathes. “Okay.”

“Good. Heavy?”

The kid nods.

“Afraid?”

He shakes his head.

“Good.” Din puts a hand on his back and points towards the trees. “See the one tree there—wider trunks, the missing branch?”

The kid nods. “Yeah.”

“Aim for it,” Din says. “You’re not going to shoot yet.”

The kid lifts his arms, aiming towards the tree. Din stands and steps back, then reaches in and puts his hand over the kid’s. “Curl this hand around,” he says. “Keep your finger off the trigger, just let it rest on the side. Good.” He steps back, then behind him. “Space your feet. Keep a good base. Lean your body forward a bit. Good.”

“This is weird,” the kid mumbles.

“But you’re steady.” Din looks down, then bumps his foot against the back of the kid’s calf. “Move forward an inch—there. Good.” Then he reaches out and gives him a push at his shoulder. The kid nearly falls forward, but manages to catch himself, taking a breath.

“See?” Din says. “You want to stand firm. At any time, not just when you’re firing a gun. Don’t hold too loose or too tight. A death grip won’t help you.”

The kid swallows. “And just… the trigger?” he says.

“No,” Din says. “You don’t get to shoot until you’re comfortable with the gun. You’re scared of it right now, and that’s okay. But this can kill a person. I wasn’t allowed to shoot until I’d been handling weapons for weeks.”

The kid frowns and lowers the gun, shifting on his feet. “Weeks?” he mumbles.

Din steps around and lowers to a knee in front of him. The kid is quick to turn his hands and point it away. Din reaches down and pulls his own blaster, checking over the safety before holding it up.

“Weapons are a Mandalorian’s religion,” he says. “One day, you won’t flinch when you hear gunfire. You won’t hear it in your dreams. You won’t be scared, you’ll be _strong._ Forged by the fire, like beskar is.”

“Like a Mandalorian,” the kid whispers.

Din nods. “Like a Mandalorian.” He re-holsters his blaster, then reaches out and puts his hand over the kid's on the top of the gun.

The kid looks up at him. “It’s a good thing?” he asks. “Being a Mandalorian. It’s good?”

Din looks at him. Then he reaches up and pulls off his helmet. There’s a cool breeze against his face, rustling his flattened hair, and he looks down into the visor. It shines back at him, pure black but for the light reflecting off it. It’s his armor, his… shield. The mask he wears to protect himself from it all.

What makes him _Mando,_ instead of _Din Djarin._

“It’s good,” he whispers, voice strained. He reaches up and slips the helmet over the kid’s head, and the boy smiles before his face disappears behind the visor. It’s too big, but he reaches to adjust it, and Din takes the blaster. “It’s a very good thing.”

The kid looks at him, and his expression is hidden. But he steps forward and bumps the forehead of the helmet against Din’s. Din swallows, startled by the sensation of cool metal against his skin, but his arms wrap around the kid to pull him in. The keldabe lasts for a few seconds before the kid leans on his shoulder instead. There’s a soft coo and Din glances at Kuiil, who watches with a tilted gaze.

“I wouldn’t have him otherwise,” he says.

The kid looks at him, then down to the baby. Slowly, he reaches up and takes the helmet off, turning it to look down at the visor and then at Din.

“I’ll be a good one,” he whispers. Then he swallows. “I want to be. I want to be a Mandalorian. A really good Mandalorian.”

Din bites his cheek as he smiles. “You will be,” he says.

Each night, when the sun begins to go down, Din and the kid walk out to the field with the pistol. Each night, no shots are fired. Instead, the kid works on his stance, how to draw it from a holster, how to hold it properly, how to flick the safety on and off. Sometimes Cara joins them, and she and Din are the ones to fire shots, showing how they stand.

“I want to shoot,” the kid grumbles. “Just once?”

“Not until you aren’t hesitating when I hand it to you,” Din says.

The kid frowns.

Another week passes on Sorgan, full of storms that come and go as they please. He and Cara are welcome help for the villagers, and it isn’t much longer before they find themselves in the ponds as well. There’s a method to catching them, and yet the basket he dips in always comes up empty or with very few.

“You’re so _tense,”_ Omera says, crouching at his shoulder. “They can sense it.”

Din looks at her. “They can _sense—”_

She smiles, and he rolls his eyes, looking back down to the basket.

“But you need to relax. You’ve been tense for days. It won’t help you catch the krill.”

Something in his chest flutters that she’s noticed, when he wasn’t even aware himself. He takes a breath and lowers the basket into the water, slowly gliding it through. It comes up again, this time with a few krill hopping about in it.

“Good,” she says. “That’s better. Slower movements. You won’t scare them.”

“Okay,” he mutters.

Her hand reaches past him to take the basket and dump the krill into the bucket. But for a split second, her hand bumps his vambrace, and he doesn’t think before he’s catching her wrist. Omera stops and looks at him, no hints on her face.

His heart is pounding in his chest. He swallows, then shifts his hand to touch their palms together, and after a moment, their fingers interlock. His pulse is in his throat, but Maker it feels _nice._ Just holding her hand feels warm and soft, so teasingly _normal._

Omera doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t pull away from him, not like he expects her too. But her other hand presses to his back and she squeezes his hand, just a little.

Then he’s the one to pull away, feeling shaken.

“I’m…” he tries, but the words don’t come. “I’m. Going to check on the… the kids.”

“Okay,” she says, her voice _gentle._ Not mocking or annoyed or _done._ Just… understanding. If he even deserves that.

He climbs out of the pond, his lower half soaked.

_But why don’t you deserve a little understanding?_

He takes a shaky breath and walks towards the village. He’s making the effort to correct those thoughts, at Cara’s suggestion—to not let the self deprecating ones slip by, to catch them and force himself to question. To try to change the way he sees himself, his oath, his _life._ It hasn’t been easy. But, little by little…

He’s doing a bit better.

“Mando!”

He looks over and grunts as he’s hit with an armful of the kid, who’s grinning up at him. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Din says.

“Come on!”

His hand is grabbed and the kid pulls him. His feet follow. “Where?” he asks, but the kid doesn’t answer, instead pulling him through the village and past the ponds. They’re heading back to the ship, and for a moment Din wonders if Kuiil is awake from his nap aboard the _Crest._

“What’s going—”

“You’ll see!”

They come between the trees, stepping around a few bushes before getting through. The ground is still soaked from the last storm. On the other side is the _Crest_ —and Cara, standing with a gun in her hand but a relaxed posture. Kuiil is sitting on the ramp with his bantha in his arms, letting out a happy coo as they approach.

“Hey,” Cara says.

“What’s going on?”

“I want to show you something!” The kid grins and lets go of Din’s hand, walking over to Cara. Cara smiles, her arms crossed, before she hands the blaster over.

Din watches, frowning.

The kid is careful in having it pointed at empty ground, and he checks over the safety—Din can see the switch is set to _off._ He looks up at the tree they’ve been using for a target, then shifts his stance.

His feet space and he lifts the blaster, shifting his weight forward, and holds. Then, he relaxes, and looks back at Din with a wide grin. “There!”

Din looks at him.

“I can _do it,”_ he says. “I want to shoot!”

Din frowns. He glances at Cara, who shrugs. “I think he’s up for it,” she says.

Kuiil is toddling towards them, wading through the clumps of grass. Din watches him, then steps over and scoops him up. “Alright,” he says. Kuiil cuddles into his chest. “Let’s see it, then.”

The kid grins in excitement and lifts the blaster. His finger drifts down to the trigger, lightly wrapping around it, but there’s a second of hesitation and his smile fades. But Din doesn’t stop him. Instead, the kid lets out a breath and steadies himself, aiming.

There’s a moment of silence.

He squeezes.

The shot fires out—without any hope of hitting its target. The red bolt shoots from the blaster and disappears straight into the trees, high up and several feet away from where it intends to hit. The kid flinches at the _zap_ and the kick, taking a step back, before swallowing and lowering it down.

“I missed,” he says.

“You did,” Din says. He walks over, boots squishing in the mud. The kid looks defeated, ready to hand the blaster over, but Din just takes his shoulder and turns him back. “You tensed up before you fired. You think you’re aiming straight ahead, but your arms are turned up. You need to be able to feel what’s actually straight and what’s slanted.”

The kid looks at him with surprise, but quickly turns to look at the target again. He takes a deep breath, then lifts the blaster once more. Din touches his arm to lower them slightly, then moves behind him and nudges him to the right. “There,” he says. “Now aim for the trunk. Eyes open. Go again.”

There’s a moment of silence. Then the kid squeezes the trigger again, and there’s another _zap._ The red bolt sails—and again, it misses. The kid stares at it and frowns. “Oh.”

“You were nearly there,” Din says. “That was much better.”

“But I missed,” the kid says, frowning.

“Everyone misses. Can’t be an ace on your first few tries.”

The kid looks at him, then shifts his weight. “You’re good.”

Din looks back. “I am.”

“So _I’m_ going to be good.”

Din smiles.

“Can I try again?”

“... Sure.”

The kid tries one more shot—then another, and another. He gets close each time, the bolt skimming the tree or nicking a branch. Eventually, Cara excuses herself, heading back to the village. The sun is setting. Kuiil starts to paw at Din with familiar mewls of hunger.

“Let’s take a break,” Din says.

The kid stops and turns, pouting. “But I’m almost there.”

“The baby’s hungry. Let’s eat.”

The kid grumbles and walks over, handing Din the gun. Din adjusts Kuiil and sets foot on the ramp, heading up, when there’s an immediate gasp and a _splash._ Din turns on his heel and looks down at the kid, who’s pushing himself off the ground with a groan. His front is dripping wet, completely soaked by water and mud. He looks up at Din.

Din snorts. “Come change.”

The kid pulls himself up and Din walks into the ship. He sets Kuiil down on the floor, then walks to the ration storage, pulling the drawer open out of the wall as he crouches. The kid walks past, dripping water, before he starts to pull it all off. Din takes a ration bar and breaks it into small pieces for the baby, who grabs it to munch on.

“... There’s nothing else.”

Din stops and looks back. The kid has his bracers off, but he’s stopped, looking down at himself and then at Din. He turns, then, looking to the open compartment where his old red robes have been stored.

“The other clothes are dirty,” he says.

Din looks at him, then back at the baby. “Put those on,” he says, giving Kuiil another piece. “We’ll clean the travel clothes.”

The kid nods, then walks over and picks up the red robes. Din hears him kick the boots off, then the rustle of fabric as he takes it off and undresses. Kuiil practically tears through the bar, still whimpering for more, and Din reaches for another. He tears it open, starting to break that up, too, when he realizes there’s silence behind him.

He turns and looks over his shoulder. The kid has changed into the robes, standing barefoot with his shoes beside him. Instead, he’s staring at his hand—and Din realizes he’s holding the red necklace in his hand, drawing out from beneath the shirt.

Kuiil whines, but Din is watching him, something stirring in his chest.

“Kid.”

“I’m not going home.”

His voice is quiet. Soft. Din isn’t sure if he’s sad, or simply… stating the fact. His chest tightens.

“No,” he says. “You’re not.”

Silence.

“It’s worth it,” he continues. “I wouldn’t… I’ve told you. I wouldn’t change anything.”

“It’s a good thing.”

The kid continues to stare at the necklace. He takes a shaky breath. “I…”

“Come here,” Din says, and he reaches up to take off his helmet.

The kid takes a moment, but he walks over, and Din gently takes his arm to pull him into a hug. The kid melts against him in an instant, face pressing into his shoulder. His weight is firm, he’s warm, Din holds him tight.

Then, the kid pulls back, and Din lets him go. He still stands there, and he takes the necklace in his hand again, looking down at it. It’s new and shiny, a sleek red against his palm. Both of them stare at it, and finally the kid glances up at him, their eyes meeting.

Then he reaches back and unclasps it.

Din watches. The kid dangles it from his fingers, then wraps it in his hand and squeezes. “They’ll be nice?” he whispers. He looks at Din. “The Mandalorians. They’ll be nice?”

“They will be,” Din says. “Whenever you go back to them. They’ll be exactly what you need.”

The kid looks at him for a long moment, then nods, and he lets the necklace fall through his fingers. It hits the ground with a _clink_ between them.

“I want to be a Mandalorian,” he whispers.

After a few seconds, Din smiles, and he pulls the kid in for a soft Keldabe.

They linger together for a few seconds before they part, upon the soft squeal from Kuiil who comes to hug Din’s leg. Din looks at him, then gives him a soft pet before he stands up. “I’m going to run a systems check,” he says. “Feed yourself?”

The kid smiles, tears glistening in his eyes, and he nods.

Din gives his shoulder a squeeze, then stands and walks past. Kuiil makes a squeak and starts to follow. “Stay down here,” Din says, and Kuiil pouts but he sits. Satisfied, Din walks to the ladder and starts to climb up. He pulls himself up through the hole, then steps off onto the second floor.

He spares a glance down. Kuiil has turned back towards the kid, watching as he bends down and picks up Din’s helmet. He stares into the visor, then turns it and slips it on, holding his hands out in front of him. Din smiles to himself, then turns and walks into the cockpit, sliding into the seat.

He begins the startup sequence, flipping switches to turn the ship’s computers on. He leaves the engines alone, instead pulling up the system manager and selecting a diagnostics run. The ship hasn’t moved in weeks, but better to keep an eye on things. The progress of the test appears on the screen in a percentage, and the current systems being checked appear beneath. It’s a rapid rotation, disappearing so fast Din can’t read.

The sun is setting ahead of the ship. Din leans back in the chair, puts his feet up, squinting slightly at the light as it shines in. It’s beautiful. Yellow fades into orange into pink into blue into black, the moons rising nearby, stars beginning to appear above.

He never really appreciates it.

He should.

The test isn’t halfway done when there’s a _clank_ from below.

Din stops, then looks over. “Kid?” he calls.

He gets no response.

Din frowns, then gets up. He walks over to the ladder and kneels down, looking through, but there’s… nothing. No one. His helmet is on the floor, rolling back and forth before settling in place. In an instant, his heart leaps into his throat, and he’s dropping through.

“Kid!”

No response. His feet hit the floor, pain stabbing through his ankles, and he looks around. “Kid. Kuiil! _Kuiil!”_

His heart is pounding. He draws his blaster, holding it at his side as comfort. He snatches his helmet and pulls it on, then jerks back the curtain to the vac tube. He hits the button for the storage compartment. The ‘fresher is empty. No sign. “N-No,” he breathes. “No. Kuiil. _Kuiil. Ad’ika!”_

_Where are they where did what happened what the hell—_

His thoughts are scrambling.

He can’t breathe.

He throws a hand against the wall for balance. The back of the ship is still open. He darts outside, boots slamming against the metal floor until he’s splashing in the wet mud. _“KID!”_ he screams, voice straining. “Fuck— _KUIIL!”_

They’re nowhere.

His heart is going to burst out of his chest.

There’s silhouettes in the village, and he holsters his gun before sprinting over. He’s given odd looks from the villagers who are getting out of the ponds, but he’s only looking for Omera. He slips past several people before he finds her, helping move a barrel of krill. “Hey!”

She stops and looks over, smiling for a moment in a way that would’ve made his stomach flutter. But he reaches out and grabs her arms instead. “Where are they?” he demands, and his voice breaks. “Where _are they?”_

“Who’s they?” she asks, staring at him with wide eyes.

“The kids! K-Kuiil and… and the boy.”

Omera looks at him, then reaches up to his hands, and he takes a deep breath as he releases her. “S-Sorry,” he stutters. “I just…”

“Kuiil is with Winta, in the hut,” Omera says, her voice gentle. “They’ve been playing since dinner. I think she’s trying to teach him Galactic Expansion—as well as that could go.”

Din steps back, staring at her. “Since…”

“What boy?”

Din’s hands tremble.

“Unless you mean Kuiil—he’s fine. Did something happen?” She reaches out and takes his hand, and her expression drops as she feels him shaking. “Din. Are you okay? You said you were just checking on the ship.”

“I,” he chokes out.

_What boy?_

_When had he mentioned the ship?_

_He wasn’t…_

_… What boy?_

His mouth gapes, hidden beneath the helmet, but words die in his throat. _What the fuck is going on?_ he thinks. What boy? Himself. His past self had just been here. Din had just _talked_ to him. Hadn’t he?

_Hadn’t he?_

“Come on,” Omera says. She squeezes his hand and then starts to pull him. They walk across the village’s center and towards her hut. Once they’re a few meters away, Omera calls out. “Winta!”

There’s laughter, and then Winta appears in the doorway, smiling. “Mama!” she calls, and then beside her—the baby appears. Kuiil coos, then scrambles past Winta and starts toddling towards Din, smiling.

Din steps towards him, then stops.

He’s not wearing his own robes—instead, they’re a woven blue, matching the rest of the villagers. He coos at Din and walks over, grabbing onto his boot despite the mud, and smiles up at him.

Din feels a lump in his throat. “Why is he wearing that?” he forces out.

Omera frowns, then lifts the baby into her arms. “Halah made it for him last week,” she says. “You liked it then.”

“It’s…” Din stops. He swallows. “It’s nice.”

Omera nods. Kuiil watches him, cooing. Winta walks over, too, attaching herself to her mother’s side as she looks up at him. Omera looks down at her, then at Din. “... What boy were you talking about?”

“The…”

The boy?

“I don’t know,” he says. “I can’t… remember. But I feel like I should. Like I just… I just knew it.”

He stares at Kuiil. He _just_ knew it. But now it’s… gone.

What boy?

“Are you feeling alright?” Omera steps up to him and reaches out, her hand placing gently against his neck, her thumb brushing against his skin beneath his helmet. His hand _flies_ to catch her, about to pull her away with panicked thoughts of _why?_ But he doesn’t. He stops, instead holding his hand over hers. _Why not?_

He’s flooded with images like this one, familiar and comforting.

“I think I had a bad dream,” he croaks.

Was it a dream? His mind is reeling. Nothing makes _sense_ anymore. But it… couldn’t be a dream. He and Cara had sparred, hadn’t they? He’d felt pain. And the ki…

“Come sit down, Din,” Omera says, her voice soft and sympathetic. There’s a bench just outside her hut and she pulls him to it. He slumps down onto it, staring at the space between his feet. There’s a coo and then Kuiil is climbing into his lap, looking eager for attention.

He puts his hand against Din’s chest.

_Happy._

Din stares down at him.

“What was the dream?” Omera asks.

Din just keeps looking at the baby. Any memories of the… the _dream_ are starting to slip away. “I don’t… I don’t know if it was even a dream,” he says. Was it? The line feels so blurry. It didn’t feel like a dream. But everything is…

_What boy?_

_He only has one._

“Do you want some spotchka?” she asks, a hand on his arm to squeeze. “That and laying down might help.”

Din is shaky, but he nods.

Omera disappears to get it. Winta slides over, leaning against him without hesitation like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He can’t take his eyes off Kuiil, who’s settling down to sleep. Then Omera reappears with a mug of spotchka, and they make a trade, the mug for the sleepy child.

“Let me know how you feel,” she says in a soft voice.

Din steps into the hut and pulls his helmet off, shaken all over, and practically downs the spotchka. For a moment, he just stares ahead at the wall, sitting down on the bed, hands gripping the frame.

He’s been on Sorgan for months.

He and Omera are… something.

He’s…

He can hear the children laughing outside. Carefree. His hands begin to lose their tremble. He reaches out and picks up his helmet, looking down into his visor.

Everything happened the same, but he… feels different.

The helmet feels lighter.

His shoulders feel lighter.

And he smiles, content, as the weight of a debt fades too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mando'a:  
> Ad'ika - little one/son/daughter
> 
> "So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past."
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me this far. This story was supposed to just be some fun time shenanigans, but turned into something a bit more (like, 6 straight days of furious writing kind of more). Please leave kudos and a comment if you enjoyed! They really make me happy to see. Thanks, y'all. I really enjoyed this one.
> 
> The [discord](https://discord.gg/UwZuG6N)  
> Follow me on [tumblr](https://coffee-quill.tumblr.com/)

**Author's Note:**

> Mando'a:  
> Ad'ika - little one/son/daughter  
> Osik - dung (impolite)  
> Buir - father/mother
> 
> The [discord](https://discord.gg/UwZuG6N)  
> Follow me on [tumblr](https://coffee-quill.tumblr.com/)


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